#thankfully the walls of the palace are reinforced now. after the first couple of times as a child they learned.

[rpvlix]

//Kenny drops things a lot. He's not as coordinated as he used to be, sometimes signals get mixed up and he loses sensation or control or just spasms. Surgical work is much harder now, I'm sure you can imagine. His temper's always been rotten, but it's perhaps a bit worse on bad days.

[avaantares]

AVA’s Adventures in Egypt & Jordan

Okay, so look -- I took nearly 5,000 photos during the 2.5 weeks I recently spent in the Middle East, so there is no way I’m going to subject my followers to the full vacation reel. I did a LOT of things. I visited a crazy number of historic sites, museums, archaeological excavations, and yes, even a handful of tourist traps (though, thankfully, not the kind where they actually trap tourists. We were warned about some of those, though). I climbed to the burial chamber inside the Great Pyramid. I stood atop the ruins of ancient Nabataean temples. I explored the tombs of the pharaohs in the Valley of the Kings. I saw 5,000-year-old artwork that looks like it was painted yesterday. I sailed around Elephantine Island on a felucca. I consumed my own body weight in falafel. (Not really, but it felt like it.) Some of these things are, obviously, more interesting to see photos of than others.

So here’s what I’m going to do: Sporadically over the next few weeks, as I sort through the I-don’t-even-know-how-many-GBs of photos, I’m going to post a few pictures at a time, sorted by geographic site, with a “Read More” cut so your feed doesn’t get buried under photos. There will always be at least one photo visible to catch your attention, and I’ll tag all the posts “AVA’s travel adventures” so you can alert/block accordingly. That way nobody is stuck scrolling through 400 pictures of yet another Egyptian temple unless they want to. :)

So, first up...

PYRAMIDS AND SPHINX!

What most people don’t realize is that the famous pyramids of Giza -- which you always see pictured in front of a spectacular desert backdrop -- are actually surrounded on three sides by Cairo sprawl. We could literally just look over and see them from our hotel (Cairo Pyramids was the name of the restaurant, I believe, but the juxtaposition made me laugh):

This was our first stop, since we began our adventure in Cairo. Pyramid selfie!

You probably learned this in school, but what’s left of the pyramids now is just the underlying support structure, left behind after a few thousand years of locals harvesting the polished white limestone surface for use in building palaces, churches, mosques, and other buildings. (This happened all over Egypt; you can find the remains of ancient temples and tombs recycled into buildings in every major city. As recently as the mid-20th century, the Egyptian government was destroying ancient buildings to make way for new industrial construction, and it’s probably still happening in some areas.) There were originally over 100 pyramids in the royal necropolis at what is now Giza, all of them covered in reflective white stone that would have lit up the desert at certain times of day. Now, only about a dozen remain, many little more than crumbling rock piles.  Some are in such disrepair they have never even been excavated.

Below, you can see a sample of what the original outer layer looked like (the smooth white section at bottom right):

Yeah, by the way, those stone blocks are HUGE. Compare each “step” to the size of the people standing on them.

So I paid the E£200 ($13) upcharge to go inside the Great Pyramid, because seriously, how often do you get the chance to climb into a 4,500 year old tomb?!

This is not recommended for the claustrophobic, by the way. The climb is very steep and very hot, and there’s not much room to maneuver. The passage at some points is only about a meter square, and requires crawling or duck-walking. And that’s for two-way traffic.

Inside-the-pyramid selfie! (In one of the areas with a higher ceiling.) To give you an idea of the steep angle, those seams in the wall are running parallel to the floor of the passage. I’m standing upright. It’s a workout.

And at the end of the climb, you get to Khufu’s (Cheops’) burial chamber! This is a large room, maybe 15′ x 30′, with his broken stone sarcophagus still in place (the only thing tomb raiders didn’t clear out in antiquity). There are a couple of electric lights and ventilation fans pumping air in from outside, because otherwise you��d asphyxiate. (Did I mention this was not for the claustrophobic?)

The broken sarcophagus:

Here’s a burial chamber selfie with my sister @lauravanarendonkbaugh​​ and our dad! (This will be a recurring theme.)

So we finally got back outside after a hot and harrowing downward climb, and then we did the obvious tourist thing, which is to ride camels around the pyramids. Tourist cliche or no, this is actually a pretty good way to see the other pyramids, including the smaller family tombs behind the larger ones, which aren’t visible from the front. (Cairo skyline visible on the horizon. The sprawl is everywhere, as is the smog. Cairo is one of the most polluted cities on the planet.)

Family camel photo! (Dad didn’t get the hand-waving memo.)

We also visited the funerary temple, which is constructed of red granite brought all the way from Aswan. It has an interesting history, but the building isn’t quite as photogenic as some of the other local features, so for the sake of bandwidth I’ll skip to the really big obvious landmark at the back of the temple complex:

Yeah, this guy’s kind of a big deal.

He’s also falling apart. Over the last hundred years, serious weathering and some misguided “restoration” attempts took off part of his shoulder, and the structural integrity of his neck is now threatened. Some preservationists are lobbying for the restoration of his beard (currently in the British Museum) to reinforce the neck, but that’s controversial for a variety of reasons, both historical and political.

Family Sphinx selfie!

The Sphinx is pretty darn ancient -- nobody is even sure how ancient, as its origin is disputed, though most estimates put it around 4,500 years. But even older, at around 4,700 years, is the very first pyramid ever built -- the Step Pyramid of Djoser, engineered by an innovative architect named Imhotep who was later deified for his contributions. (It pays to make nice with the god-king.)

A storm was blowing in just as we arrived, but hadn’t quite obscured the sun, so I got this stunning dark-sky-glowing-pyramid photo purely by chance:

Also. Selfie. (Just as the clouds spread overhead, so less glowing in this one.)

This pyramid is also part of a larger complex, which has been undergoing restoration to rebuild the throne, courtyard and temple areas. These are the first examples of all-stone architecture in human history, so they’re a pretty big deal.

That’s the first pile of photos, and probably enough for a single post, so I’ll spare you the dozens I took inside the Imhotep museum. More to come...!

[dryad-of-the-dogwood]

Alright guys, after the longest spell of writer’s block I’ve had in a while, here it is: chapter 29 of A Thread of Fate is finally up on AO3. It’s shorter than usual and far from my best work, but after next week, the developments in my life chipping away at my focus should hopefully be stabilizing. Here’s to the promise of a much better chapter 30 - and, Maker willing, a much shorter wait for it, as well!

Chapter 29: Signet

Aside from morning drills, the rest of Nalissa’s days are free, and except for a couple of short missions that thankfully don’t keep me away overnight again, so are mine. It’s a strange thing, both to feel safe here and not to be burdened by all the responsibilities of being a king. I could almost fall into the routine, embrace a life as a Grey Warden again, and forget the weight of the crown.

Almost. The longer time stretches on without any word from the Crows or Zevran, the more restless I become. It’s a fine thing, being a Warden during a Blight when there are real threats and important things needing doing, but this? I feel useless just putting on the armor and not acting the part. It reminds me of being sent away to the Tower of Ishal when any actual, critical missions are immediately handed off to others. Just another virtue of my father’s blood, I suppose.

I eventually find myself thinking more than once that if assassins can’t find us here, maybe Rial and his masked mage compatriot have given up. Surely it would be just as safe in Denerim. Surely by now, Eamon’s spies have had time to rout out any Crow sympathizers, and it would be nice to feel like I’m making an actual difference again.

What exactly happened to me and when, I wonder, that I find myself actually missing duties I once despised?

If it was just me, I would probably even take the risk and return to the palace. It’s only the fact that it’s Nalissa’s life I would be endangering if I’m wrong that keeps me from doing anything rash in my discontent. So I try my best to keep busy, doing whatever I can to feel useful. I help one of the merchants with a stall in the courtyard resolve an issue with one of her distributors not delivering. I patch a roof for a Warden’s widow, even though I never knew the man. I take Nalissa to see Wade and Herren, and commission a new set of drakeskin armor for her so she doesn’t have to keep wearing Warden blue.

We’ve just returned from collecting the finished set, which is a deeper violet than her last one and custom designed with plenty of hidden pockets for her knives and a light hood that sheds water. It suits her, I think—graceful but subtle, and more than it appears. And more importantly, it will afford some anonymity and keep her safe on the journey back to Denerim, as soon as we’re able to make it.

Then I open the door to our quarters and find myself staring in surprise. As if my train of thought has manifested into reality and summoned him, Zevran Arainai leans against the writing desk, crossing his arms and grinning at us.

“Well, it is about time!” he says haughtily, as if he’s been waiting for us for some time, which I suppose he may have been. I’m still trying to unstick my tongue and find a retort to throw at him when Nalissa moves, and it takes the flash of white steel before I realize with a start that she has never actually seen Zevran’s face before.

“Duck!” I order, because I’m far too late to stop her this time. I hurtle myself between them anyway just as the knife sails past me, and catch her wrist before she can ready another blade. She shoots me a look of startled confusion, and I can hear a thud behind me that I sincerely hope is Zevran hitting the floor in a dodge and not a collapse.

Thankfully, the next thing I hear is a laugh that I take to mean he actually listened to something I said, for once. “My, my! I can see why you like this one, my friend! Beautiful and deadly.”

“Zevran,” I explain quickly before Nalissa can assume I’ve gone suddenly mad and try to attack again anyway. Understanding erases the alarm from her eyes, and as her shoulders un-tense if not quite relax, I slide my hand down to hers and turn. The throwing knife is solidly embedded in the wall just behind where Zevran was standing, and the assassin himself is leaping back to his feet to approach, still grinning.

“You can only be the infamous Nalissa,” he says in what I would probably classify as a flirtatious tone if the same couldn’t be applied to every single word out of Zevran’s mouth. “Zevran Arainai, my lovely lady. A pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Ah. Yes. Sorry about that,” she says, gesturing toward the wall and still seeming a little uncertain. “I wasn’t aware you would be… dropping in.”

“Zev doesn’t exactly send a card ahead of his visits,” I mutter, and the elf in question laughs again.

“What fun is life without a little mystery, yes?”

Nalissa raises an eyebrow and mutters, “The mystery might be what’s behind the Veil if you make a habit of surprise visits to people expecting Antivan assassins.”

“That it might, if everyone had aim like yours,” Zevran compliments her. “I can see why you’ve given Rial and his team such trouble.”

I can’t quite tell whether that’s meant to say the trouble is over or not, so not being one to beat around the bush, I ask. “Does that mean we’re done dealing with them, then?”

It comes out hopeful, but Zevran crushes it with a downturn of his lips and a shake of his head. “Unfortunately not. Between the three of us, we managed to dispatch all of Rial’s original group except the man himself him and that lovely but deadly mage. But it seems whoever paid for your life has a great deal of coin at their disposal. The Crows have sent reinforcements.”

Nalissa swears a streak that would make a sailor blush, and Zevran manages to look both surprised and oddly impressed. I glance between them for a moment, waiting for someone to say something, because I don’t have a plan for continued reinforcements from the Crows but surely one of them does. When none seems to be forthcoming, I settle my frown on Zevran and ask, “Then what do we do?”

“Run,” Nalissa decides at once, and though her eyes focus somewhere far away, she speaks too certainly for me to believe she’s only thinking of this plan now. “Slip out in disguise, with a merchant caravan. Or stow away on a trade ship. If we can find one willing to risk the Storm Coast, my uncle will help us. I look more Mac Eanraig than Cousland; it should work, if we can make it there.”

I suppose I should be comforted that she at least says “we,” this time. The idea of her trying to slip away as I slept again would have made me too afraid to sleep again. It was bad enough before, but now—now that she knows that I love her, that I would sooner walk unarmed into the Deep Roads than return to Denerim without her, the thought would drive me mad.

But still it isn’t comforting that her first thought is to run. If there’s anywhere in Thedas that’s safe from assassins, it would have to be here. I look to Zevran as I say so aloud, hoping he will laugh and tell her her plan is unnecessary, but the frown lines creasing his face don’t fade.

“This new batch is not so dim as to spread themselves thin enough to give me a clean opening,” Zevran says in a tone that's almost bitter. “Rial has learned, it would seem. It is only a matter of time before one of them finds a way inside.”

“Impossible,” I assure him. “Nalissa is the only one one inside this keep that hasn’t taken the Joining. The only merchants allowed through the portcullis are well known and impossible to impersonate. We would know if anyone tried to sneak in.”

“Ah, but did you know I had sneaked in?” Zevran counters, and I open my mouth to speak but close it again immediately. He has a point. The weakness of Grey Warden senses is that we can only pick out each other, only identify outsiders by sight and the process of elimination.

“How did you get in?” Nalissa asks suspiciously, and Zevran gives a sheepish grin.

“Normally I would say it is a trade secret, but I could not allow you to worry your pretty head about gaps in security. Oghren… escorted me in.”

“Escorted? What, he marched you through the front door?” she asks doubtfully, and Zevran gives a little cough that I’m sure he means to be discreet.

“Yes, in fact. Though it may have been inside an empty wine cask.”

Nalissa snickers, but though yes, it does make for a hilarious mental picture, it also proves my point. “Aha! See, even you needed help to get in. From a Warden. None of the other Wardens are going to help an assassin—er, no offense. So clearly we’re still safe here.”

“Clearly, you are not,” Zevran says, waving a sealed envelope in my face with a frown. “Just because they cannot get inside does not mean they have no way to reach you. Here, have a look at what I found on your desk when I arrived.”

I take the missive and frown at it, unsure of the point he’s trying to make. “Yes? It’s addressed to Nalissa, so that means someone knows where she is, right?”

“Not quite incorrect, but also not quite the problem,” Zev says, shaking his head. “It is a trap, and a rather devious one. A Crow specialty, if you will. Upon breaking the seal, a tiny blade hidden within will cut the hand of its victim, administering an extremely potent poison—”

“Let me see that,” Nalissa says sharply, making a sudden lunge for the envelope. Much to my surprise, Zevran snatches it away before she can.

“Do you wish to die? I just told you—”

“I heard your warning, now let me see the seal!” Nalissa is positively snarling, and I realize with a start that she looks angrier than I’ve ever seen her.

“It is a trap,” Zev emphasizes again, but under her threatening gaze, he flips the envelope around so she can view the wax insignia.

“That fucking bastard,” she whispers, but the anger in her voice is suddenly overshadowed by something else. It’s a shade of fear, I realize, and a moment spent examining the letter more closely is all I need to tell me why.

The seal meant to entice her into opening it without question is the crest of Highever. I know of only two people alive bearing rings with that seal, and Nalissa still wears hers on a chain around her neck.

“They want a fight, I’ll give them one,” she snaps, and before I can do more than reach for her hand again, she’s spun on her heel and marched out the door like she means to hunt down a troupe of assassins all on her own.

Right now, I think with alarm, she probably does.

“Lady Cousland!” a Warden greets me at the head of the stairs, right before he visibly recoils when I come close. Probably at the look on my face, but I don’t have the time or the will to spend arranging my expression to a more pleasing one.

“I need to see the Warden-Commander. Now.”

“Er—what do you—”

“Don’t play dumb, Aldin; it doesn’t suit you” I warn, putting as much restraint as I can into not sounding like a potentially murderous lunatic, even if right now, I might just be on the edge of that. “I spent an entire summer here once when Vigil’s Keep still belonged to the Howes. I know where the arl’s chambers are, and I need to see the arl.”

Aldin hesitates, thumbing the pommel of his sword thoughtfully. “Is the Warden-Commander expecting you?”

“I have an open invitation,” I lie, but of course the poor boy isn’t expecting me to lie to him, so he sighs in relief.

“Of course, my lady, of course. Silly of me not to—yes, go on in.”

He opens the door and gives a full Fereldan salute as I pass, but I barely notice. Walking into what had once been Rendon Howe’s study is… disconcerting, to say the least. Most of the furnishings have changed, including the desk itself, but the drapery is still the same plush velvet that I remember.

I shut the door behind me quickly, before I can change my mind and try to leave. And also before Aldin can lock eyes with the Warden-Commander and realize I don’t have permission to be here at all.

Caron has his back turned, working with something on a low table near the fireplace, and when he looks up it’s with an expression of surprise and a tumbler of what’s likely some fancy Orlesian liqueur in one hand.

“Wh—Lady Cousland, what in the Void are you doing in my office?”

His shock is quickly turning toward the self-important puffing of his chest that I suddenly realize might be as much a defense mechanism as anything else. Curious—or it would be, if I had time to think on exactly why that might be.

“I need an escort,” I tell him firmly, crossing my arms and squaring my stance. I present myself as the teyrn’s daughter he likely expects me to have been, like a woman unused to being told no. Not that my mother in particular ever had difficulty denying me anything outlandish or unnecessary or even especially unladylike, but there’s no way for him to know that.

“A what?” he asks, blinking quickly. It seems the brashness of my request has stunned him. Good.

“An escort. A trustworthy unit to help me make it to Highever in one piece. And to fight a dispatchment of Antivan Crows, if necessary.”

I expect nothing of the kind, of course; I know well how negotiating works. Ask first for the moons, my father used to say, and they will think a single star a bargain.

Caron snorts at me, then raises his glass in my direction. “Just how many of these have you had already this evening?”

“I’m not drunk, and I’m quite serious. Don’t pretend Wynne or Oghren or someone hasn’t told you by now why I was unconscious when Alistair first brought me here. No lord is so short on knowledge in his own keep.”

This time, his dark eyebrows rise but his expression spells something close to amusement. “A lord now, am I? My, but you want something important to call me that. Want to tell me what it really is?”

I can feel my teeth clenching, and have to work to soften the expression. Apparently it isn’t only in a sparring arena that he can read me much more clearly than I’m used to, and that’s a very frustrating thing to have to deal with right now.

“I received a letter today marked with the seal of Highever.”

“Interesting, seeing as we’ve received no runners from the west, but do go on.”

“It was another attempt on my life. A trap set to poison me if I opened it. Obviously, my brother doesn’t want me dead—”

“Felicitations; he sounds like a much friendlier fellow than mine.”

I try to pin him down with a glare, but he only laughs at my attempt. “My lady, I was a half Fereldan bastard in the Orlesian court. You shall have to work harder than that to force me into silence.”

“Then perhaps I should inform you that this—” I fish the chain and attached ring from the neck of my shirt to accentuate my point, “is one of only two Cousland crest rings still in existence. Meaning the Crows sealed a letter to me with the signet ring of the teyrn of Highever.”

Caron takes a slow sip of his drink, his eyes wandering up to the vaulted ceiling. When he looks back to me with a sigh, his expression has at least turned more serious. “That is… problematic. But a concern your betrothed should be better suited to address, is it not? A Grey Warden army could not be sent to storm castle Cousland, but a Fereldan one certainly could.”

“No,” I object, firmly and instantly. “If they have Fergus hostage, they would kill him if they were cornered. So they can’t know they’re cornered.”

“So you’re asking, not for a party to escort you as requested, but a… routine dispatch of a caravan to Highever. A place for you to hide along the way.”

I hesitate, certain from the tone of his voice that the answer will be no, but what choice do I have but to play along? “That would suffice.”

Caron puts down his half-empty glass on the desk and crosses his arms to look across it at me. “Have you any other proof, besides the seal on this letter, that your brother is compromised?”

That gives me pause. “I… suppose not.”

“And you say it was meant to kill you, yes? So why would they go to the trouble of keeping your brother hostage at all, if they expected you dead already?”

“A back-up plan, obviously. They’ve failed to kill me at least twice already. They won’t be surprised by a third.”

Caron strokes his goatee in what seems to be a habit when he’s considering something. I take some heart in the fact that he’s at least considering it.

“And you’re quite certain the teyrn isn’t simply the one that hired these assassins?”

I stiffen, and a scoff passes my lips before I can stop it. “Very. Whoever paid the Crows did it when I was promised to the king. Fergus was one of the parties arranging that. Besides which, he’s my brother.”

“That must mean something different in Ferelden,” Caron says dryly. “I have three brothers, and not a one wouldn’t trade my life for political advancement.”

“Then I pity you what family means in Orlais.”

Caron hums something noncommittal, then picks up the glass again to swirl the liquid within and stare into it as he does. Finally, he decides, “I will not authorize any deployment to Highever.”

Internally, I curse this stubborn and self-centered Orlesian to the depths of the Void. Externally, I bite my tongue and dig my nails into my forearms. Fine, then. I will find another way.

“I will, however, send a dispatch,” Caron says suddenly, interrupting my thoughts. “A single runner to the teyrn with a request for recruitment. One who you will not accompany, but who is trained in espionage. He will determine whether the teyrn is actually in danger, or if this is only a ploy to drive you out into the open.”

For a moment, I don’t know what to say. I hadn’t even considered that but Caron has a point. Maybe the seal wasn’t chosen just to get me to open the letter. Maybe it was a different kind of back-up plan, to ensure I rushed to my brother’s aid if the letter trap failed.

A cold chill creeps down my spine though as I wonder, but what if it wasn’t?

“A fast runner,” I emphasize, but it’s an acquiescence and we both know it. At this point, I will take whatever I can get, and pray that it means news of my brother’s safety. At least Alistair will be happy to hear that we’re waiting it out in the keep.

For now.