#why yes I did squeeze in an allusion to solas’ line

[bearlytolerant]

Tagging whoever sees this and wants to share.

Figures spin in an array of silks. Donning masks feathered or scaled or embellished in some format or another. And her eyes watch from the shadowed corner of the room.

Blonde hair. Braided bun. Blue plumed mask.

Blonde. Braided. Blue.

The description plays on repeat for her target of a delivered letter. A noblewoman who can be swayed to the side of the arisen. To her side. Not that she cares for her position but she cares for Ser Brant and Sven and they are pulling all the strings. She’d made an attempt at convincing Brant to let a pawn go in her stead but it failed. Miserably. So she resigns herself to her task. At least she can wear a pretty dress and drink and dance. Besides, their hard work on her behalf should be rewarded, no?

More masqueraders filter through the doorway and something new plays on the lyre, soft and sensual and half the candles are blown out, creating quite the moody romantic atmosphere. Roses in a vast array of pinks and reds in vases around the room but the sweet floral fragrance cannot drown out the scent of sweat and sex that permeates the air.

Gwyn manages to spot a woman matching the description she’s searching for but the woman is caught up in a dance before she can even peel herself off the pillar. With slumped shoulders, she sighs and mindlessly adjusts her own black mask with lavender colored feathers curving up the right side, matching her heavily made up eyes.

A shiver runs up her spine, as if she’s being watched and she averts her gaze from the dance floor and scans the shadows. A tall figure, dressed in black robes with gold accents and a mask to match catches her eye. A half smirk tugs at those lips. So she carries herself over.

“Might I have this dance?” she boldly asks.