a trail of pirate-themed objects begins at the stairs up to the inquisitor's room. first a rather large bronze coin, then a few steps up an olden rusty dagger, a full bottle of very old rum, a piece of rope — the trail is meant to lead no one else but the owner of the chambers up.
would she follow it, she'd find a hand hook, an eye badge, a piece of a ship's sail — the trail curving to the closed doors of the balcony, but obviously left to be opened by the receiver. who hopefully would be only evelyn, given the late hour of the day.
behind the doors stands tulin wearing nothing but a head bandana and a captain's old hat that presently just covers his crotch. the same can't be said for his butt, that feels the full wrath of the chilly air in skyhold. it hardly dampens his anticipation for being found by evelyn in the current state. he thinks she'd be piqued by the foreign objects, perhaps a bit puzzled as to who would leave them, but truthfully no one could make it this far into her private space with her guard dog present.
the guard dog now shifts on his bare feet and tunes his ears to catch any possible noise behind the doors. his eyes instead fall on the necklace that's arranged into an arrow to point toward him. he recalls briefly his interactions with isabela on the quest to acquire the items used as props. she'd asked what they're for and he narrowed his eyes as a scary crow before telling her it was better to not ask. less talking, more giving him the props. they'd finally agreed on their price — a favor for tulin to fulfill — and he'd swiftly made his way back through a number of eluvians.
his hair whips his face, but he thinks he hears something and he braces himself. a figure that must be evelyn's behind the glass hesitates before pulling the doors open. tuiln lifts his chin up and smiles smugly at her. "arrgh?!" he must work on his improv. the elf puts the hat crookedly on his head and reveals a considerable amount of manliness for evelyn. "a pirate at your service tonight, corazon."
Her slippered foot brushes against glass and sends a bottle rolling across the cobbles, the tinkling sound echoed by the vast emptiness of Skyhold’s halls. The Inquisitor takes an intuitive step back, looks down to see where an old dusty bottle of something brown has meandered off to stop against a wall, its contents sloshing. She blinks, rolls up the missive in her hand, and spies knick-knacks sprinkled throughout the hallway, placed on the stairs leading up to her quarters, almost as if left there to entice her forward. It reminds her of the days when she’d find Cole’s stashes of this and that, all with purpose and intention she’d only glean that much later. But Cole is long gone from Skyhold, hopefully safe and sound in a cottage somewhere with Maryden still at his side.
The trinkets stop at her closed door, a solid oak barrier between her furrowed brow and the answer she seeks. She presses the wrought-iron handle and enters. Her eyes dart from the rug to the bed to the nude (or near enough) man standing front and center, a tricorne hat hanging just so from his (apparent) erection. The missive slips from the Inquisitor’s fingers, her jaw drops in silent surprise. She watches, agape, as he removes the hat from its perch and places it askance on his head, baring all without a hint of reservation.
There is a heavy moment of stunned silence as she takes in the sight, attempts to formulate a response, and fails to find words that suit. Instead, a gust of laughter bubbles from her throat before she can clap her remaining hand over her mouth. One more look and the dam breaks, great gales of laughter that could shake the snow from the Frostbacks, tears pricking her eyes as her knees no longer bear her weight and she must brace herself, hinged at the waist, against her door.
When she can breathe again, her stomach hurts from laughing, her eyes are wet and squinting against the icy drafts blowing in from the open windows. Tulin is a specimen unto himself to have waited so patiently and so nakedly in this perpetual chill. This whole production, no doubt, spurred on by some flighty comment about rakish pirates and their damsels. And now she’s not just tickled but touched that he would do all this for her—to satisfy a silly, superficial whim.
“Maker’s blood,” she gasps, her hand falling from her mouth to her chest, willing her breath to return to a normal pace. “It appears a roguish sort has come to plunder my treasure.”