𝙸𝚃'𝚂 𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙴 , 𝙱𝙴𝙰𝚄 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙺𝚂 , 𝙷𝙾𝚆 𝚀𝚄𝙸𝙲𝙺𝙻𝚈 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙴𝚂 𝙱𝙴𝙲𝙰𝙼𝙴 𝙷𝙾𝙼𝙴 . the inquisition had not been at skyhold a year yet , but the moment her boots crossed the threshold into the courtyard … she felt a sense of relief . her first order of business , as always , was to report directly to sister nightingale : deliver her findings and whatever messages that needed passing along from other agents in the field . and then , upon her dismissal … beau had all but skipped down the small stairwell to end up in the inquisition’s library . she didn’t skip , as it happened , mostly because her attentions were more consumed with fishing a volume out of her bag .
❝ dorian , ❞ the girl says with equal affection and pleasantness , the kind everyone always assumed to be affected but any fool could see was painfully genuine . she smiles at the sight of him - floating teapot and drawn brows and all - and takes up her usual perch upon the railing that circled the tower’s second level . he’d chided her , in his way , multiple times about the precarious balance … it didn’t stop her . ❝ not too hard , no , ❞ beau answers , dutifully steering away from the subject of her recent assignment like a good little spy . her heel taps lightly against the railing . ❝ tea would be lovely - consider it a repayment , ❞ she holds up the book with one hand and gives it a bit of a wiggle , grinning from ear to ear . ❝ i brought you a gift . ❞
Isabeau had some of something of a surprise ——— the whole of his journey southward had been a surprise above all else ( throwing his lot in with a heretical movement at the spearhead of which is a man with a magically glowing hand alongside several of those who worked closely with the SOUTHERN CHANTRY, despite denouncing it in word, though not at all in action, not to mention forming friendships with several ) but his fondness and affection for her had taken him somewhat by surprise. Dorian is not a person lacking in affection for others, per say, but where it once had been a rarity or something that he protects out of necessity and little else, she had simply been disarming. And thus : he is happy to, at last, see her once more.
He’s already set to looking for another cup that he’s sure that he’s left somewhere in his study before she has a chance to respond that yes, she would indeed appreciate some tea, and he’s just found one ( and magically thrown it beside the tea pot ) when she states that she’s brought him a gift. He turns with a flourish, brows raised and smile widening on his face as he looks to her / and then the novel in hand, ❝ A gift? For me? ❞ he points a finger absently at the teapot and it lifts in response, beginning to pour a cup for each of them. ❝ You shouldn’t have, Isabeau, you know what they say about expectations, ❞ he picks up the fresh cup from the table and holds it out for her to take, while extending his other hand, fingers wiggling ( there’s no better term for it, really ) in askance for the tome. ❝ But... it’s terribly rude to reject a gift ——— my mother would have my head if I did, and then where would the Inquisition be? Dare I guess that you’ve acquired me a book that I’ve lamented the absence of at length? ❞
