It was late morning, the sun ascended high enough into the sky that its light streamed in through the highly-placed windows of his small dwelling. From the exteriors, most of the houses in Lowtown were built this, perhaps to discourage theives from helping themselves to an easier entrance. Perhaps it even worked; the only kinds of nighttime intruders he'd ever needed to worry about were those who would not be dissuaded by something so small. Unlike other places in the area, the window was about as clean and bright as lye and elbow grease could make it, though the glass was of a fundamentally grainy sort and would never admit the full brightness of the hour. Nonetheless, the room was well-lit, and though the wood and walls were dark, it did not have the cling of despair and dinginess about it.
Aside from the desk and the armchairs near the fireplace, the place was dominated by laden bookshelves, and, presently at least, a moderately-sized easel, on which was propped a canvas. It was about the only thing Lucien had purchased with his expedition earnings so far, as he found he simply had need of nothing else. He would need a new weapon in time, and perhaps this time he would at least go to a proper smith to obtain it, but for now, that could wait. At this particular moment, the owner of the hole in the wall was standing at the easel, charcoal stick in one hand, which was for once bereft of a plated gauntlet. Actually, all of his plates were currently arranged on the armor shelf in his chamber, leaving him with little more than a ringmail shirt and some leather by way of protection. That even these remained was perhaps a bit odd, but he did not think it so.
Taking shape on the canvas was the figure of the dragon from the Deep Roads, its wings outstretched and jaw agape. At its heels and arrayed out in front of it could be seen figures with currently only vague resemblance to Rilien, Ashton, Ithilian, Nostariel, Sparrow, and Varric, each wielding his or her weapon of choice. With time, their expressions would be every bit as contentious, but for now, he was simply arranging their shapes properly.
Some ways down the street, Sophia Dumar was making her way towards the mercenary's house, for once wearing more armor than he was. She was garbed in her usual suit of ringmail under light plate, crimson skirt flowing down to her knees, golden hair tied back to keep it out of her way. Considering that this was the first time she'd been able to escape from the Viscount's Keep all week, she planned to take advantage of the day. One of the guardsmen had tipped her off of something to investigate near the entrance to the Alienage, and she planned to check it out. That, and Lucien seemed more comfortable speaking with people who looked more likely to enter a battle than a dinner party.
The past few months had taught her that nothing was ever so simple as she wished, nor even so simple as it seemed. No amount of desire on her part could make all issues into black and white, with the clear choice as to where she should stand. She did not want to cause conflict with the Qunari, but at the same time she could allow them to operate with impunity within the walls of what was soon to be her city, a territory which they had no authority over. They still showed no signs of leaving or preparing to leave, and though Sophia would have liked to believe otherwise, it was becoming apparent that they would not be leaving on their own. Saemus had been pleased at that, and Sophia had not the heart to bring up what had occurred with the Qunari mage and Sister Petrice, for fear her own doubts would be dredged up by the incident.
Nor had she been able to confront the sister. For one, Petrice was remarkably hard to find, even for one who spent as much time within the Chantry walls as Sophia did. And two... it was perhaps the first issue the Viscount's daughter preferred to ignore rather than face head on. Sophia was willing put faith in her one more time, faith enough to believe that she wouldn't be fool enough to try something like that again. For the moment, Sophia was dedicating herself to solving some of the city's problems that didn't involve the Qunari. It wasn't like there was too few to choose from.
But first she planned to speak to Lucien. It had taken longer than she would have liked to run into him at the Hanged Man, given that her father was placing more and more responsibilities on her of late, almost as though he were trying to take up all of her time... no doubt he didn't care for what she did when given free time. But nevertheless she made her way on occasion down to Lowtown, and eventually ran into the Orlesian man at the tavern long enough to express her relief that the expedition had made it back in one piece, and to arrange a meeting of sorts to continue the discussion they'd left off last time. The location had been set for his house, which she could locate now that she had the directions. Lowtown still turned her around on occasion, but she was getting the hang of it. Coming to a halt before the door she'd been directed to, Sophia knocked clearly three times.
The noise echoed softly in the cavernous chamber; for some reason, Kirkwallian houses seemed to be built with high ceilings more often than second floors, but he wasn't complaining. He rarely did, even when there were things to complain about. Why bother? His father had always put it with that common touch of his: fix it, or shut up about it and move on. Somewhat crude as far as advice went, maybe, but quite relevant all the same. "It's open, Sophia," he called, just loud enough to be heard through the door. He would have answered it himself, but he was trying to make it to a decent stopping point with the piece so as not to be working still when attempting to converse. Adding a few more soft strokes to the swish of Nostariel's hair, he stepped back, frowned, and sharpened the lines of Ithilian's profile a bit before he was satisfied enough to lay down the charcoal on the side table, until such time as he had a moment to work on it again.
Right on time, the small kettle over the fire in the brazier began to boil, and he crossed to that spot, unhooking it from the hearth and carefully tipping some of the water into a teapot made of Orlesian ceramic. It was one of the few items he'd brought with him when he left, largely for the sentimental value. Though not particularly feminine in design or color, it was clearly a delicate thing, and it had belonged to his mother. Spooning a measure of tea into the pot, he left it to steep and retrieved a pair of cups and saucers from the shelf, setting these down on a small tray, which sat on the end table between the two armchairs. It was at that point that he glanced up at his guest, smiling kindly. "How have you been?"
Sophia had stood in the entryway for a moment while Lucien moved to the teapot. Once he'd reached the end table between the armchairs she took the liberty of seating herself in one, unbuckling her sword and leaving it propped up near the door. Awkward thing to sit down with, Vesenia was. "Busy, but not in a bad way. Father has me taking up more of his duties lately, trying to prepare me, that or he's trying to keep me out of Lowtown. Both, probably." She glanced over towards Lucien's painting, smiling to herself.
"So the rumors are true, then? I heard the expedition ran into a dragon below the surface, but I must admit, I was skeptical. I suppose that makes us even, then? Now that we've both ran into dragons and lived to tell the tale?" She leaned her chin on a gloved hand, studying the work in progress. "And I had no idea you painted. It's coming along very nicely, I think."
"Well, considering the source of those rumors, I suspect a certain amount of skepticism is healthy," Lucien said, a wry twitch at the corner of his mouth. Varric certainly could spin a yarn; the man would make a small fortune if he ever took up his trade in Orlais. Though, he would perhaps not need it now, given their rather large recent windfall. "But yes, there was a dragon belowground, and a good number of its lesser kin. 'Twas quite the battle, even for as many as we were. I do believe Ashton took possession of one of its forelimbs afterward, for some reason or another." Judging from the smell, the tea was done, and he poured hers first, followed by a second for himself.
His eye was drawn to the canvas upon her mention of it, as if he were seeing it for the first time, and he shrugged, just slightly. "I have but the barest fraction of my mother's talent, I fear. But such a scene as that one deserved the memory, even if it is a humble one in the end," he deflected modestly. He hadn't yet decided whether or not to place himself in the image, and he was leaning towards the negative. It was very nicely composed as it was, and self-portraiture was... iffy at best, as far as he was inclined. He was quite certain she was here for reasons other than discussing his half-formed artwork, but he was disposed to allow Sophia to come to the topic in her own time. It wasn't something he was particularly looking forward to discussing, but he would. She deserved to know it, and he honestly had no better reason to keep it to himself than a certain kind of unbecoming reticence.
So he took his seat, lifted his teacup into one hand, and resolved to let the conversation move as she dictated it.
Sophia would have tried to counter Lucien's downplaying of his own skill, but she was used to his extreme modesty at this point, and knew there would be little point. "My own mother was a terrible painter, as my father tells me. She was more like me, apparently. Sparring with her brothers rather than learning to sew and dance, and perhaps a little short on patience." She wasn't sure why she told him that, as she didn't make a habit of talking about her mother, though she enjoyed it on the occasions she did. She was a remarkable woman that Sophia could only hope to live up to.
Turning away from the painting, Sophia took a sip of the tea before setting the cup lightly down. "I thought we might continue our previous conversation, now that you've returned," she said, delaying no further. "I suggested you might aid my family more directly, to which you warned me that there are things I should know first. I was wondering if I might know them now, since we aren't surrounded by patrons in the Hanged Man." She was confident that whatever it was, her offer would still stand, given what she had seen of Lucien's true nobility.
But then again, nothing was ever so simple as she wished.
Sighing slightly through his nose, Lucien set down his cup and leaned back, raking a hand through his hair with a half-sardonic, tight smile. "I suppose I rather left you bereft of explanation, didn't I?" A pause, then he shook his head, just slightly. "Very well. I shall attempt to rectify that." Propping his elbows on the armrests of the chair, he steepled his fingers together, then laced the last three of each hand together, tapping his squared chin with his extended index digits in thought. It was difficult to decide where to start. It had not been beyond him that he might need to explain this eventually, but no way he ever seemed to approach the conversation in his mind seemed to work. He always ended up saying too much or not enough.
Perhaps it would be best if she could help him decide where to begin. "How well do you know your ancient history, Sophia? Are you familiar with the founding of the Orlesian Empire?"
Sophia cringed slightly. "I'm afraid my history tutor was... none too fond of me. If you catch my meaning."
That earned her a chuckle. "I think I understand. Well, most of it isn't relevant anyway. Suffice to say that I'm unfortunate enough to be related by blood to the founder. Kordillus Drakon, he was called, and my father is the present Lord Drakon, much to the chagrin of many another courtier." He might have said more there, but it occurred to him that this was probably more important information than his rather calm delivery would suggest, so he gave it a moment to permeate. Truthfully, he was expecting a question or two here, to put it politely, perhaps even disbelief. As if to stave that off, he tilted his head, indicating the coat of arms on the wall to his left, over the mantle.
Just the way he said it left Sophia with a rather dumbfounded look on her face for a moment, before she realized that this really made a lot more sense than it seemed at first, and in the end wasn't all that surprising. It was in the way he carried himself, the way he spoke, really everything about him had screamed nobility to her, but if she was interpreting this right, then he was more along the lines of royalty than a more common noble birth.
Once she'd gotten her thoughts back together, she actually smiled slightly at the announcement. "So does that mean I should have been addressing you as 'my lord' all this time?" Of course there was more to this than simply his birth, as there needed to be some explanation as to why a descendant of the founder of the Orlesian Empire would be selling his blade in the poorer districts of Kirkwall.
Lucien grimaced, the expression slightly exaggerated for effect. "I certainly hope not. If you did, I'd have to call you 'my lady,' and stop speaking directly, and get offended whenever someone didn't bow deeply enough. It's incredibly inconvenient for maintaining friends." Lifting one shoulder in a slight shrug, he continued. "And really, the decorum and rigidity is more or less the reason I'm here anyway. The Orlesian court likes rules, and changing them without telling anyone. I... may have broken a few. Call it the indiscretion of youth, I suppose, though it sounds odd to say so with little more than two years between then and now." He'd changed a great deal over that small fraction of time, though, and just before.
"Empress Celene is my aunt, on my mother's side. She does the best she can, I think, but even someone as powerful as she is had to work within certain... constraints. The court isn't very amenable to being ignored, and she can't do everything herself. My father is military, as my family has always been. It's not the royal line anymore, I think due to a complicated incident involving an illegal regency back in the Steel Age, but that's not really important. I was raised in a way that, perhaps, you might understand-- there was a certain expectation about what my future was to be," he left out the part where that future involved his aunt's crown, "and I was raised to meet it. The trouble was, my father and his predecessors have never been embraced by the court; I do think the only reason his marriage to my mother was allowed was because everyone expected Aunt Celene to have children at some point. He doesn't much go in for the Game, and this has made him more foes than I can properly count." Ah, the complexities of politics. He had not missed them.
"Well... that complicates things nicely, doesn't it?" she asked rhetorically, taking another drink of the tea. He was related to the founder of the Empire and the current Empress. Indeed, she was starting to see how his service to her family would be making a statement to Orlais, whether she wanted to or not, though she didn't quite know just what that message would be. "So... how did you end up here in Kirkwall? As a Lowtown mercenary no less." She certainly could understand the upbringing he had, to a certain extent. Hers had not been military beyond the blade training she'd received as a teenager, but the lack of choice in regards to his future was something she could sympathize with.
"Too much pride and my father's own stubborn streak," he replied lightly, but then he paused, considering the answer in more seriousness. He had never particularly enjoyed conversations that were about himself, perhaps because the people who asked usually wanted something from him. He didn't think that was necessarily the case with Sophia, at least not in the same way, but even so, habit was habit, and hard to break for all that. He supposed he couldn't even blame the courtiers who had intended to manipulate him or people he knew. It was how their own houses survived another generation with their influence intact. "I was... an officer in the army, newly-knighted and rather reckless, all told. My sense of what was right or best didn't always mesh with command structure, and I had little patience for what I viewed as incompetence."
It normally hadn't been that much of an issue; his lord father had less patience for it than he did, and was the man primarily in charge or promotions in rank. Still, in a fighting force that large, some people were bound to slip through the cracks. "A number of us were sent out to deal with some bandits terrorizing the countryside, the usual sort of thing. I was second-in-command, and a number of the troops in that detachment were personal friends of mine. The bandits were much more numerous than we'd been led to believe, and we were outnumbered. The commander led us right into an ambush, despite several of us insisting that it might happen. In order to get out, he was going to cut and run... and a few of my comrades were going to be in the 'cut,' so to speak." His expression dropped into a frown, one that bordered on a scowl.
"So I overrode the chain of command, took a few of my best friends, and dug out the others the hard way. Not as simple as it should have been; the bandits were trained." Too trained, his tone implied easily enough. He'd nearly died several times, lost to the reckless abandon of a fight for his life and the lives of those he cared about. Something that could still happen from time to time. "I lost two to save ten, which was regrettable. We managed to get out, but the commander was obviously not pleased. I was just as angry, and we wound up having it out right there. Duels are not common in Orlais anymore, but still technically allowed under chivalric code. He wasn't as bad a warrior as he was a commander, though." Lucien's thumb slid under the black band of his eyepatch, and he pulled it away. The skin underneath was bisected by a jagged-looking scar, and though the iris of the eye was the same color as his other one, the pupil did not adjust much for the incoming light, a sure sign that it didn't work very well.
"Nearly lost me my eye, but I'd say what he lost was considerably more significant." His words were heavy with some unnamed weight, and he shook his head. "I didn't kill him; I think even then I knew a little better than that. But his sword-arm is gone, and he's been ejected from the army. Of course, what I failed to realize at the time was that his family has enough influence to stand against mine, and I was officially tried for insubordination, assault, and a number of other things, some of which I certainly deserved, and the murder of my two friends, which I like to think I didn't." Truly, that they had died at all was the part he regretted the most about the whole incident. "There was a lot of delay, and considerable politicking, and a few bards got involved, at which point the whole thing was more sensation than trial anymore. My aunt was forced to exile me, at least for the time being, and I left Orlais, travelled through Ferelden, fought in Denerim, and then made my way here. That's about the long and short of it, really."
Sophia knew she needed more experience, but now that Lucien had told his story, she wasn't so sure she was ready to pay the price to get it. Thus far she had only involved herself in sessions holding her father's court that had been glorified practice, and ventures into the civilized wilderness of Lowtown that were starting to seem more reckless than noble. She'd done a lot of uncomfortable fidgeting throughout the course of the story, and had just about finished the tea. She had a sudden urge at the end to inquire about Denerim, but under everything else it felt rather minor in comparison. She'd have to ask him later.
"I..." she began, before reconsidering. "That can't be an easy thing to share. I'm honored you feel comfortable enough to share it with me." She figured it had to have been something like exile. She didn't claim to know intricacies of Orlesian politics and how it differed from the routine in Kirkwall, but she could think of no other reason he would leave his country for Lowtown. "I can't imagine my words are worth much. Or anything, really. I've never really been in any situation like that. Never had to follow orders." Indeed, she was more looking to receive advice from him, rather than give it. Though she didn't imagine he needed it.
"So your service to my family would anger certain influential people, I take it?" She sighed. "Politics have a way of muddying things, don't they?" So rarely were things clear to her. The time she'd ridden out to save her brother had been an easy decision to make, but everything since then was growing more and more cloudy. Perhaps she had to simply go with what her heart told her, regardless of where that led.
"A lovely piece of understatement," the mercenary mused thoughfully, sliding his eyepatch back into place. The blurriness faded from his vision, the details of his home and the woman in front of him resolving into better focus. "But true enough. I'll have to disagree in one respect, however: words have great significance. Yours no less than any others. And yes, I'm afraid my direct vassalage would likely create political problems the like of which I do not desire to contemplate. It does not seem to me, however, that the continued anonymous help of a friend will do the same, if you are not averse to it."
She didn't like it, but she didn't see much that she could do about it. Even if it was somehow stressed that the decision had been hers and not her father's, the weight of her choice would probably fall on him regardless, and she had no desire to place more problems upon him, as he had enough to deal with already. As much as she wanted to take his side, she couldn't do it while her father would take the fall. She would not try to convince him of this, either. Sophia had already decided she would only be bringing her father good news.
"So long as the anonymous help can go both ways, then perhaps it is best. If you need of anything that the Keep can provide, please do not hesitate to ask. I can't help but notice that your... farming tool, is not in sight. If you would like to make use of the Keep's forge, or take something from the armory, just say the word."
He didn't bother to hide the glint of amusement in his eye, nor the wry smile. "Yes, sadly the farming tool broke off inside the maw of a dragon. It shall be difficult to replace." Then, more seriously: "But I shall not take up a sword until I've earned the right. I may perhaps ask after some kind of waraxe, however." He'd been planning to have one made by a smith, but the important part would be what he could pay Rilien to do with lyrium and that strange enchantment skill of his afterward.
"You have my thanks, Sophia, for listening. It is not the most comfortable story in the world."
She stood. "It helps to have someone to tell it to, I think. I'm glad I could do the listening for once." Sophia crossed the distance to where her sword was propped against the wall, sliding an arm and her head under the strap so that it rested across her back once more. "See you around, Lucien."
Aside from the desk and the armchairs near the fireplace, the place was dominated by laden bookshelves, and, presently at least, a moderately-sized easel, on which was propped a canvas. It was about the only thing Lucien had purchased with his expedition earnings so far, as he found he simply had need of nothing else. He would need a new weapon in time, and perhaps this time he would at least go to a proper smith to obtain it, but for now, that could wait. At this particular moment, the owner of the hole in the wall was standing at the easel, charcoal stick in one hand, which was for once bereft of a plated gauntlet. Actually, all of his plates were currently arranged on the armor shelf in his chamber, leaving him with little more than a ringmail shirt and some leather by way of protection. That even these remained was perhaps a bit odd, but he did not think it so.
Taking shape on the canvas was the figure of the dragon from the Deep Roads, its wings outstretched and jaw agape. At its heels and arrayed out in front of it could be seen figures with currently only vague resemblance to Rilien, Ashton, Ithilian, Nostariel, Sparrow, and Varric, each wielding his or her weapon of choice. With time, their expressions would be every bit as contentious, but for now, he was simply arranging their shapes properly.
Some ways down the street, Sophia Dumar was making her way towards the mercenary's house, for once wearing more armor than he was. She was garbed in her usual suit of ringmail under light plate, crimson skirt flowing down to her knees, golden hair tied back to keep it out of her way. Considering that this was the first time she'd been able to escape from the Viscount's Keep all week, she planned to take advantage of the day. One of the guardsmen had tipped her off of something to investigate near the entrance to the Alienage, and she planned to check it out. That, and Lucien seemed more comfortable speaking with people who looked more likely to enter a battle than a dinner party.
The past few months had taught her that nothing was ever so simple as she wished, nor even so simple as it seemed. No amount of desire on her part could make all issues into black and white, with the clear choice as to where she should stand. She did not want to cause conflict with the Qunari, but at the same time she could allow them to operate with impunity within the walls of what was soon to be her city, a territory which they had no authority over. They still showed no signs of leaving or preparing to leave, and though Sophia would have liked to believe otherwise, it was becoming apparent that they would not be leaving on their own. Saemus had been pleased at that, and Sophia had not the heart to bring up what had occurred with the Qunari mage and Sister Petrice, for fear her own doubts would be dredged up by the incident.
Nor had she been able to confront the sister. For one, Petrice was remarkably hard to find, even for one who spent as much time within the Chantry walls as Sophia did. And two... it was perhaps the first issue the Viscount's daughter preferred to ignore rather than face head on. Sophia was willing put faith in her one more time, faith enough to believe that she wouldn't be fool enough to try something like that again. For the moment, Sophia was dedicating herself to solving some of the city's problems that didn't involve the Qunari. It wasn't like there was too few to choose from.
But first she planned to speak to Lucien. It had taken longer than she would have liked to run into him at the Hanged Man, given that her father was placing more and more responsibilities on her of late, almost as though he were trying to take up all of her time... no doubt he didn't care for what she did when given free time. But nevertheless she made her way on occasion down to Lowtown, and eventually ran into the Orlesian man at the tavern long enough to express her relief that the expedition had made it back in one piece, and to arrange a meeting of sorts to continue the discussion they'd left off last time. The location had been set for his house, which she could locate now that she had the directions. Lowtown still turned her around on occasion, but she was getting the hang of it. Coming to a halt before the door she'd been directed to, Sophia knocked clearly three times.
The noise echoed softly in the cavernous chamber; for some reason, Kirkwallian houses seemed to be built with high ceilings more often than second floors, but he wasn't complaining. He rarely did, even when there were things to complain about. Why bother? His father had always put it with that common touch of his: fix it, or shut up about it and move on. Somewhat crude as far as advice went, maybe, but quite relevant all the same. "It's open, Sophia," he called, just loud enough to be heard through the door. He would have answered it himself, but he was trying to make it to a decent stopping point with the piece so as not to be working still when attempting to converse. Adding a few more soft strokes to the swish of Nostariel's hair, he stepped back, frowned, and sharpened the lines of Ithilian's profile a bit before he was satisfied enough to lay down the charcoal on the side table, until such time as he had a moment to work on it again.
Right on time, the small kettle over the fire in the brazier began to boil, and he crossed to that spot, unhooking it from the hearth and carefully tipping some of the water into a teapot made of Orlesian ceramic. It was one of the few items he'd brought with him when he left, largely for the sentimental value. Though not particularly feminine in design or color, it was clearly a delicate thing, and it had belonged to his mother. Spooning a measure of tea into the pot, he left it to steep and retrieved a pair of cups and saucers from the shelf, setting these down on a small tray, which sat on the end table between the two armchairs. It was at that point that he glanced up at his guest, smiling kindly. "How have you been?"
Sophia had stood in the entryway for a moment while Lucien moved to the teapot. Once he'd reached the end table between the armchairs she took the liberty of seating herself in one, unbuckling her sword and leaving it propped up near the door. Awkward thing to sit down with, Vesenia was. "Busy, but not in a bad way. Father has me taking up more of his duties lately, trying to prepare me, that or he's trying to keep me out of Lowtown. Both, probably." She glanced over towards Lucien's painting, smiling to herself.
"So the rumors are true, then? I heard the expedition ran into a dragon below the surface, but I must admit, I was skeptical. I suppose that makes us even, then? Now that we've both ran into dragons and lived to tell the tale?" She leaned her chin on a gloved hand, studying the work in progress. "And I had no idea you painted. It's coming along very nicely, I think."
"Well, considering the source of those rumors, I suspect a certain amount of skepticism is healthy," Lucien said, a wry twitch at the corner of his mouth. Varric certainly could spin a yarn; the man would make a small fortune if he ever took up his trade in Orlais. Though, he would perhaps not need it now, given their rather large recent windfall. "But yes, there was a dragon belowground, and a good number of its lesser kin. 'Twas quite the battle, even for as many as we were. I do believe Ashton took possession of one of its forelimbs afterward, for some reason or another." Judging from the smell, the tea was done, and he poured hers first, followed by a second for himself.
His eye was drawn to the canvas upon her mention of it, as if he were seeing it for the first time, and he shrugged, just slightly. "I have but the barest fraction of my mother's talent, I fear. But such a scene as that one deserved the memory, even if it is a humble one in the end," he deflected modestly. He hadn't yet decided whether or not to place himself in the image, and he was leaning towards the negative. It was very nicely composed as it was, and self-portraiture was... iffy at best, as far as he was inclined. He was quite certain she was here for reasons other than discussing his half-formed artwork, but he was disposed to allow Sophia to come to the topic in her own time. It wasn't something he was particularly looking forward to discussing, but he would. She deserved to know it, and he honestly had no better reason to keep it to himself than a certain kind of unbecoming reticence.
So he took his seat, lifted his teacup into one hand, and resolved to let the conversation move as she dictated it.
Sophia would have tried to counter Lucien's downplaying of his own skill, but she was used to his extreme modesty at this point, and knew there would be little point. "My own mother was a terrible painter, as my father tells me. She was more like me, apparently. Sparring with her brothers rather than learning to sew and dance, and perhaps a little short on patience." She wasn't sure why she told him that, as she didn't make a habit of talking about her mother, though she enjoyed it on the occasions she did. She was a remarkable woman that Sophia could only hope to live up to.
Turning away from the painting, Sophia took a sip of the tea before setting the cup lightly down. "I thought we might continue our previous conversation, now that you've returned," she said, delaying no further. "I suggested you might aid my family more directly, to which you warned me that there are things I should know first. I was wondering if I might know them now, since we aren't surrounded by patrons in the Hanged Man." She was confident that whatever it was, her offer would still stand, given what she had seen of Lucien's true nobility.
But then again, nothing was ever so simple as she wished.
Sighing slightly through his nose, Lucien set down his cup and leaned back, raking a hand through his hair with a half-sardonic, tight smile. "I suppose I rather left you bereft of explanation, didn't I?" A pause, then he shook his head, just slightly. "Very well. I shall attempt to rectify that." Propping his elbows on the armrests of the chair, he steepled his fingers together, then laced the last three of each hand together, tapping his squared chin with his extended index digits in thought. It was difficult to decide where to start. It had not been beyond him that he might need to explain this eventually, but no way he ever seemed to approach the conversation in his mind seemed to work. He always ended up saying too much or not enough.
Perhaps it would be best if she could help him decide where to begin. "How well do you know your ancient history, Sophia? Are you familiar with the founding of the Orlesian Empire?"
Sophia cringed slightly. "I'm afraid my history tutor was... none too fond of me. If you catch my meaning."
That earned her a chuckle. "I think I understand. Well, most of it isn't relevant anyway. Suffice to say that I'm unfortunate enough to be related by blood to the founder. Kordillus Drakon, he was called, and my father is the present Lord Drakon, much to the chagrin of many another courtier." He might have said more there, but it occurred to him that this was probably more important information than his rather calm delivery would suggest, so he gave it a moment to permeate. Truthfully, he was expecting a question or two here, to put it politely, perhaps even disbelief. As if to stave that off, he tilted his head, indicating the coat of arms on the wall to his left, over the mantle.
Just the way he said it left Sophia with a rather dumbfounded look on her face for a moment, before she realized that this really made a lot more sense than it seemed at first, and in the end wasn't all that surprising. It was in the way he carried himself, the way he spoke, really everything about him had screamed nobility to her, but if she was interpreting this right, then he was more along the lines of royalty than a more common noble birth.
Once she'd gotten her thoughts back together, she actually smiled slightly at the announcement. "So does that mean I should have been addressing you as 'my lord' all this time?" Of course there was more to this than simply his birth, as there needed to be some explanation as to why a descendant of the founder of the Orlesian Empire would be selling his blade in the poorer districts of Kirkwall.
Lucien grimaced, the expression slightly exaggerated for effect. "I certainly hope not. If you did, I'd have to call you 'my lady,' and stop speaking directly, and get offended whenever someone didn't bow deeply enough. It's incredibly inconvenient for maintaining friends." Lifting one shoulder in a slight shrug, he continued. "And really, the decorum and rigidity is more or less the reason I'm here anyway. The Orlesian court likes rules, and changing them without telling anyone. I... may have broken a few. Call it the indiscretion of youth, I suppose, though it sounds odd to say so with little more than two years between then and now." He'd changed a great deal over that small fraction of time, though, and just before.
"Empress Celene is my aunt, on my mother's side. She does the best she can, I think, but even someone as powerful as she is had to work within certain... constraints. The court isn't very amenable to being ignored, and she can't do everything herself. My father is military, as my family has always been. It's not the royal line anymore, I think due to a complicated incident involving an illegal regency back in the Steel Age, but that's not really important. I was raised in a way that, perhaps, you might understand-- there was a certain expectation about what my future was to be," he left out the part where that future involved his aunt's crown, "and I was raised to meet it. The trouble was, my father and his predecessors have never been embraced by the court; I do think the only reason his marriage to my mother was allowed was because everyone expected Aunt Celene to have children at some point. He doesn't much go in for the Game, and this has made him more foes than I can properly count." Ah, the complexities of politics. He had not missed them.
"Well... that complicates things nicely, doesn't it?" she asked rhetorically, taking another drink of the tea. He was related to the founder of the Empire and the current Empress. Indeed, she was starting to see how his service to her family would be making a statement to Orlais, whether she wanted to or not, though she didn't quite know just what that message would be. "So... how did you end up here in Kirkwall? As a Lowtown mercenary no less." She certainly could understand the upbringing he had, to a certain extent. Hers had not been military beyond the blade training she'd received as a teenager, but the lack of choice in regards to his future was something she could sympathize with.
"Too much pride and my father's own stubborn streak," he replied lightly, but then he paused, considering the answer in more seriousness. He had never particularly enjoyed conversations that were about himself, perhaps because the people who asked usually wanted something from him. He didn't think that was necessarily the case with Sophia, at least not in the same way, but even so, habit was habit, and hard to break for all that. He supposed he couldn't even blame the courtiers who had intended to manipulate him or people he knew. It was how their own houses survived another generation with their influence intact. "I was... an officer in the army, newly-knighted and rather reckless, all told. My sense of what was right or best didn't always mesh with command structure, and I had little patience for what I viewed as incompetence."
It normally hadn't been that much of an issue; his lord father had less patience for it than he did, and was the man primarily in charge or promotions in rank. Still, in a fighting force that large, some people were bound to slip through the cracks. "A number of us were sent out to deal with some bandits terrorizing the countryside, the usual sort of thing. I was second-in-command, and a number of the troops in that detachment were personal friends of mine. The bandits were much more numerous than we'd been led to believe, and we were outnumbered. The commander led us right into an ambush, despite several of us insisting that it might happen. In order to get out, he was going to cut and run... and a few of my comrades were going to be in the 'cut,' so to speak." His expression dropped into a frown, one that bordered on a scowl.
"So I overrode the chain of command, took a few of my best friends, and dug out the others the hard way. Not as simple as it should have been; the bandits were trained." Too trained, his tone implied easily enough. He'd nearly died several times, lost to the reckless abandon of a fight for his life and the lives of those he cared about. Something that could still happen from time to time. "I lost two to save ten, which was regrettable. We managed to get out, but the commander was obviously not pleased. I was just as angry, and we wound up having it out right there. Duels are not common in Orlais anymore, but still technically allowed under chivalric code. He wasn't as bad a warrior as he was a commander, though." Lucien's thumb slid under the black band of his eyepatch, and he pulled it away. The skin underneath was bisected by a jagged-looking scar, and though the iris of the eye was the same color as his other one, the pupil did not adjust much for the incoming light, a sure sign that it didn't work very well.
"Nearly lost me my eye, but I'd say what he lost was considerably more significant." His words were heavy with some unnamed weight, and he shook his head. "I didn't kill him; I think even then I knew a little better than that. But his sword-arm is gone, and he's been ejected from the army. Of course, what I failed to realize at the time was that his family has enough influence to stand against mine, and I was officially tried for insubordination, assault, and a number of other things, some of which I certainly deserved, and the murder of my two friends, which I like to think I didn't." Truly, that they had died at all was the part he regretted the most about the whole incident. "There was a lot of delay, and considerable politicking, and a few bards got involved, at which point the whole thing was more sensation than trial anymore. My aunt was forced to exile me, at least for the time being, and I left Orlais, travelled through Ferelden, fought in Denerim, and then made my way here. That's about the long and short of it, really."
Sophia knew she needed more experience, but now that Lucien had told his story, she wasn't so sure she was ready to pay the price to get it. Thus far she had only involved herself in sessions holding her father's court that had been glorified practice, and ventures into the civilized wilderness of Lowtown that were starting to seem more reckless than noble. She'd done a lot of uncomfortable fidgeting throughout the course of the story, and had just about finished the tea. She had a sudden urge at the end to inquire about Denerim, but under everything else it felt rather minor in comparison. She'd have to ask him later.
"I..." she began, before reconsidering. "That can't be an easy thing to share. I'm honored you feel comfortable enough to share it with me." She figured it had to have been something like exile. She didn't claim to know intricacies of Orlesian politics and how it differed from the routine in Kirkwall, but she could think of no other reason he would leave his country for Lowtown. "I can't imagine my words are worth much. Or anything, really. I've never really been in any situation like that. Never had to follow orders." Indeed, she was more looking to receive advice from him, rather than give it. Though she didn't imagine he needed it.
"So your service to my family would anger certain influential people, I take it?" She sighed. "Politics have a way of muddying things, don't they?" So rarely were things clear to her. The time she'd ridden out to save her brother had been an easy decision to make, but everything since then was growing more and more cloudy. Perhaps she had to simply go with what her heart told her, regardless of where that led.
"A lovely piece of understatement," the mercenary mused thoughfully, sliding his eyepatch back into place. The blurriness faded from his vision, the details of his home and the woman in front of him resolving into better focus. "But true enough. I'll have to disagree in one respect, however: words have great significance. Yours no less than any others. And yes, I'm afraid my direct vassalage would likely create political problems the like of which I do not desire to contemplate. It does not seem to me, however, that the continued anonymous help of a friend will do the same, if you are not averse to it."
She didn't like it, but she didn't see much that she could do about it. Even if it was somehow stressed that the decision had been hers and not her father's, the weight of her choice would probably fall on him regardless, and she had no desire to place more problems upon him, as he had enough to deal with already. As much as she wanted to take his side, she couldn't do it while her father would take the fall. She would not try to convince him of this, either. Sophia had already decided she would only be bringing her father good news.
"So long as the anonymous help can go both ways, then perhaps it is best. If you need of anything that the Keep can provide, please do not hesitate to ask. I can't help but notice that your... farming tool, is not in sight. If you would like to make use of the Keep's forge, or take something from the armory, just say the word."
He didn't bother to hide the glint of amusement in his eye, nor the wry smile. "Yes, sadly the farming tool broke off inside the maw of a dragon. It shall be difficult to replace." Then, more seriously: "But I shall not take up a sword until I've earned the right. I may perhaps ask after some kind of waraxe, however." He'd been planning to have one made by a smith, but the important part would be what he could pay Rilien to do with lyrium and that strange enchantment skill of his afterward.
"You have my thanks, Sophia, for listening. It is not the most comfortable story in the world."
She stood. "It helps to have someone to tell it to, I think. I'm glad I could do the listening for once." Sophia crossed the distance to where her sword was propped against the wall, sliding an arm and her head under the strap so that it rested across her back once more. "See you around, Lucien."