The day to day inner machinations of the great city-state of Kirkwall so oft appear to run like a well-oiled machine: ships seeking passage to and fro, gliding along the dark waters of the Waking Sea through its harbour; Lowtown and its many miscreants, working (and drinking) themselves to death, fighting over coin and food alike; and to Hightown, polished, proper, and prim, filled with nobles of old houses, believing in truth that their word (and gold) are enough to turn the gears and sway the Viscount.
They do not know that he is but a puppet, a key player positioned and manipulated by the wants (and needs) of the Chantry through its devout Grand Cleric - and its most righteous zealot adorned in iron and steel, baring the blade and wearing Andraste's crown. Her threat has remained viable, always looming beneath the lid of an ivory-carved jewelry box in blackened ink with old stains now turned brown (and the bloodied signet ring of his predecessor long removed — but not forgotten. Never, forgotten). While bearing the title, Dumar remains pliable, at the beck and call of Kirkwall's most powerful.
And so it remains routine; both here in the Gallows and in the Keep, maintaining peace in politics, though temptation and evil lurk around every corner and every shadow. For weeks, such routines have begun and concluded, with a spattering of interruptions; a failed Harrowing, a would-be escapee brought to justice by his own family, and the ever-present and looming threat of blood magic within the city's own walls, and beyond its territory.
Preoccupied with such matters, the Knight-Commander has been lost to each day as it comes and goes; the sun rises, she begins her day with donning her armour and it does not end until she returns it, piece by piece, unto its stand in her private quarters, body worn and tired but her mind ablaze with the thoughts (and fears) that her vigilance has not been enough, that it has failed...
The quill scratches with haste, still in a neat hand as letters and decrees are written and sent; templars come and go, and the devoted second-in-command ensures that all is well within the Gallows. It is only when her assistant alerts her that one Lady Amelia Comstock has come to the Gallows that reality returns to Meredith Stannard, and the promise of silverite blades has finally come to fruition, here and now.
Almost suddenly, she returns her worn quill to the near empty ink well, reaching for the goblet of water near neglected all afternoon, downing what remains as a hand brushes back tousled golden curls; the red hood has been drawn back with the afternoon sun, leather gloves cast aside to write at such an extent (black ink darkens pale finger tips; a red impression makes its mark upon the pale underside of a delicate wrist).
As the Knight knocks and calls forth that her guest has arrived, the Knight-Commander rises in all her administrative glory — not bloodstained nor damp with sweat from battle, but instead, marked by the process of paperwork. Yet, as The Good Lady crosses the threshold, the lingering ache in her hand seems to dissipate as Meredith's attention is drawn to her (— and only to her).
"And a good afternoon to you, Lady Comstock."
A calm, level tone guides her rasped voice as she steps toward the younger woman; Chantry robes adorn her lower half, heavy nearly as the armour itself some days. By the Maker's hand, her work shall be done, though a reprieve brought upon His humble servant by a woman of the faith is most welcome. Adorned by the afternoon sun filtering in through the windows, it casts a golden glow upon the Good Lady's soft, pale skin and reflects the depths of blue in her eyes, like that of the Waking Sea on a hot summer's day. For a moment — and she dares only to do it for a moment — Meredith admires her as a woman, her simple beauty from across the room.
Breath catches in the back of her throat, and the room feels warm; and then, reality returns to the reason why they are here. She swallows sharply, clearing her still-dry throat.
"I have fared as well as one can in ensuring that the City remains safe from the evils that magic can bring. However, I am certain that your blades will do their part without a doubt." A pause follows, eyes trailing out beyond the hall wherein the First Enchanter is certain to be listening in behind his door. "And in such a case, we shall be seeing one another frequently... I am hoping the Knight-Captain will instill inspiration upon future recruits, and as such, they shall need blades as they begin their initiation into the Order." Her gaze meets Amelia's, lips drawn back into the semblance of a smile; a subtle, yet present indication of pleasure to be within her company once more; a break from the endless stack of parchment adorning her desk.
"I... have thought of you - and our initial conversation - in your absence," Meredith carefully admits, granting the Good Lady entrance into her office, gesturing for the same Knight to shut the heavy door behind her. With practiced ease, she pulls one chair back for her to sit. "I had hoped you would make the journey to the Gallows... and here you are. I am pleased to see you return."
