#Duke artain

[psalacanthea]

Valse des Fleurs

I just wanted to write something different, there’s no excuse. :P  Pre- Dragon Age Origins, in Orlais.  Bard OC and Marjolaine, a bit of the Game and some seduction. 2k, semi-sfw 

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Soft giggles marked the beginning of the evening’s festivities, pretty little songbirds clustered together to share gossip and pry at each other’s businesses.

Although they were the bards here only to play, to dip a toe into excitement and to enjoy the thrill that came from the wetting, that did not mean a knife would not find their back as unerringly if they accidentally plunged too far.  Claire found them harmless, sometimes useful, and she knew most other experienced bards felt the same.  You never knew when a brightly fluttering bird might come in handy to draw attention.

Or to frame for your crimes.

Right now the fashion was cinched to the void and back, but unlike most her corset was designed to be released with a moment’s notice without tearing her gown.  It was a little trick hidden in ruching and a second set of buttons.  Corseting was good for posture, but not for running or climbing walls, which was sometimes necessary.  

Hopefully not tonight.

It was a celebration tonight, a grand ball being held in celebration of what they were calling the Day of Dragons, to mark the thwarting of the attempted assassination of the Divine.  Many of the gossips were whispering about trying to catch sight of the new Hero of Orlais, but Claire was far from interested.  She’d seen the girl, a rawboned, awkward thing with an uncomfortable scowl.  Barely nineteen, Nevarran, and a hero of Orlais.

They would eat her alive.

It was of little concern to Claire, who was here to plant evidence of her husband’s affair on a Comtesse, and then drug the Comte with an aphrodisiac.  The second part wasn’t necessary.  Just fun.  After all, what better way to prove someone was having an affair than to…have him caught in the middle of one?

At least two of his lovers were here tonight, she knew.

“Lady Artaine.”

Spinning with a soft swirl of her heavy skirt, Claire turned with surprise to face another hunter.  Oh no.  Marjolaine was here.  Caution spiked instantly, for although she was a predator, she was not one at the apex.  No, such a position belonged to those such as Marjolaine, the graceful, cultured widow who smiled at her with a knowing and maternalistic air.

Claire was one of the few people that knew she was a bard, and she did not feel safer for that knowledge.

“Please.  I would never forgive myself if you thought I would require so formal an address,” Claire said with a soft smile.

“Well, I would not want that.  Claire.”  Her name was a purr and a threat.  “I fear I misjudged the evening’s crowd– I find it quite stifling, don’t you?”

“May I be so bold as to invite you for a turn in the garden, my Lady?  Perhaps the night air might soothe you,” she offered, accepting the delicately implied command.  Even with room to gracefully misunderstand, it was better not to pretend she didn’t know what Marjolaine wanted.

“You are too kind.”

A hand was extended to her, chastely gloved and graceful, fingers curling downward in expectation of support.  Claire delicately took it, the barest pressure of Marjolaine’s palm resting atop her fingertips.  Together they navigated the grand vaulted arcade; a pair bound to cause some whispering.  There was nothing to be said in a place such as this.  No, whatever Marjolaine wanted from her could only be spoken of in privacy, but apparently she still wanted them to be seen together.

That was worrying; it implied that she might have been looking for a later victim to blame something on.

Naturally, if Claire had been seen conversing with her in private, should something go awry…

They turned out into a moonlit garden between wings of the palace, a maze of hedges and clandestine bowers, places to hide and places to be found.  She’d heard tales of the Duke loosing half a dozen lovers in here and then chasing them like a hound after a fox.  Scandalous story, were it true.

It wasn’t, but…

Sometimes action followed scandal, for nothing stoked the fires of imagination and lust like a salacious story.

Marjolaine stopped around a corner, in the shadow of scarlet climbing roses that drooped, heavy and mature, from a woven lattice.  They were beginning to wilt, and velvet petals littered the cobbles underfoot.  She turned her gaze to one near her cheek, cradling it in her fingers and bringing it to her nose.  An inhale of the rich, heady fragrance was interrupted as Marjolaine turned to face her, fingers still delicately resting on Claire’s palm.

Her free hand lifted, gloved fingers touching Claire’s jaw, the barest touch and an unbreakable beckon.

The rose dropped from her fingers, petals cascading from the bloom.

“You still carry a tension, right here, when you are afraid,”  Marjolaine murmured, fingers stroking back along the curve of her jaw, to where it met her neck.  “It gives you away.”

“Thank you for the instruction,” she replied quietly, unconsciously lifting her hand to her jaw as Marjolaine’s knowing fingers withdrew.  “Though if I held no fear I would be a fool or arrogant, and I am neither.”

“No.  But you are a pretty, petty creature, serving prettily petty whims and plots,” Marjolaine said, cuttingly accurate.

Claire smiled, finding more confidence in that assessment.  It was true, and it was how she preferred things to be.  “Then you know I am no threat.”

“I know you are no threat to me,” Marjolaine agreed with a small smile, voice delicate and soft despite the words.  Voices might carry when words did not, after all, and their tone must remain pleasant and calm.  “The Comtesse needs evidence of her husband’s betrayal so that his reputation will be ruined when she throws him out.  But when we breached his private study during last week’s soiree, his letters were already gone.”

“Fortunate for me that I chose the night before the soiree, then,” Claire said instead of playing dumb.  If she were so blunt, then their purposes must not be at cross-purposes.  Otherwise Marjolaine would have just stolen the letters hidden in her underskirt and claimed victory for herself.  

“This plot is beneath me, but I have a protege to train and she needs to be set free to face the Game alone.  I know who has hired you, but I do not know why.  I should like it if our interests aligned this evening.”

Claire considered that, tilting her chin.  Normally Marjolaine would have happily thrown a protege to the proverbial wolves.  That she was confronting another bard to ensure her safety spoke of weakness, and weakness was interesting.  But then again, Marjolaine was clearly here because she thought Claire to weak to challenge her.

If she’d been strong enough to get in the way, she’d likely be dodging Marjolaine’s blade right now.

“My employer is someone who wishes the Comte absent from his position.”

“His seat of power?”

“No, his position between the Comtesse’s thighs.”

Marjolaine’s lips curved up into a slow smile.  “Ah.  Then it seems we are not at cross-purposes.”

“What assurance do I have that your protege will not impede my mission?”

Marjolaine’s smile remained, but her eyes were dark, cold, and menacing as a blizzard in the dead of winter.  “My word.”  Her smile softened, and she tipped her head.  “After all, you still have the letters, don’t you?”

Knowing it would get her mocked, she still pressed her hand to her hip to make sure, enduring Marjolaine’s rolling laugh.  Although they were bound tightly so they did not rustle, she could feel the small bulge in the pocket tied ‘round her waist.  Shifting her eyes up and aside, she nodded her head.

“I do.  I think I might spend some time enjoying the flowers, if my Lady does not require accompaniment back to the celebration.  The roses wilt so fast in the autumn chill, I would like to witness their beauty before it fades.”

“Flowers never last as long as you would like,” Marjolaine agreed with an incline of her head.  “ She extended a hand to cradle one of them, an unblown rose that seemed to have begun to bloom too late.  Although the petals were still shyly curled inward, the edges already showed signs of frost burn, edges blackening.

The knife came from nowhere, a glint of silver that drew Claire’s eyes.  It wasn’t a move unfamiliar to her, but the grace and deadliness of Marjolaine’s motions was enough to make her heart tense with wariness and admiration.  The small knife sliced through the cane of the rose, parting it from the trellis.

There was a flutter of pleasure under the unease, a warmth that crept into her cheeks.  Marjolaine turned back towards her, the rosebud in her fingertips, ruby-tipped thorns intact.  As she stepped in closer, skirt swaying, eyes warm and soft, Claire held her ground.  Her heart sped up as the space between them shrank, a trembling breath taken in, held.  

The petals of the doomed rosebud brushed against her soft lower lip, a sensation so delicate that it tickled, sparkling across her nerves.  

“You looked so at home among the moonlit roses, Claire, your lips may as well have been plucked…from among them.”  She smiled, slow and mysterious.  As Claire’s breath caught in her throat, her hand lifted, moving as if to tuck the thorny rose behind her ear.  Claire’s head tilted, longing for the delicate brush of her fingers, but Marjolaine stopped, the tip of the freshly-cut stem trailing along the delicate skin next to her ear, down to her jaw.

“But this rosebud doesn’t suit you, does it?”

“It doesn’t?”  Claire asked, lower lip trembling softly as Marjolaine leaned in.  She knew the art of seduction, of course, and knew this was likely as much of a game as it was anything else, but there was something about Marjolaine’s composure, her skill.  It was as thrilling as being hunted.

“Does the Comte Doucy know that you aren’t a servant, I wonder?”

Claire stilled, cheeks flushing, heart seizing.  So, her little game had been found out at last.  She had no doubt that Lothaire had figured it out months ago, but he’d said nothing and so neither had she.  It was a game they would continue to play until one of them simply…stopped engaging.

“I haven’t asked,” she murmured, glancing aside as Marjolaine dropped the rose.  “He asks very few questions.”  No, their game was very simple.

If he asked for a specific drink that night, her ever-present shadow of a servant would inform her.  Then she would wait until he’d gone to his bed, dress as a servant, and come join him.  If he hadn’t been such a good lover, it would have only been one time, but at the moment she was still enjoying him.

“I wonder what his wife to be would do if she knew that every time they arrived at a soiree, he was hunting the crowds for his little…summer…peach?”

She flushed, both enthralled and mortified that Marjolaine knew so much.  “I know the names of all of her lovers,” she replied quietly.  “Besides, if she goes hunting for a servant, she’ll never find me.”

Marjolaine laughed, soft and delighted, the sound thrillingly rich.

“You are a funny little thing.  Will you do me this favor and aid my protege, sweet rose?  If you do…”  She smiled, leaning in.  Her breath against Claire’s ear was a promise, hot and stimulating.  “I shall teach you a new game.”

Her thighs pressed together, a sudden heat in her stomach and between her thighs, anticipation catching her breath in her throat.  There was the softest nip at her earlobe, the sensation of plush, promising lips, and then Marjolaine withdrew, leaving her weak and wanting.  Maker’s breath, she was terrifyingly talented.

There was no reason to refuse.

“Yes, please,” she murmured throatily, fighting to lean after the woman.

Marjolaine’s eyes flickered down to the rosebud at her feet, a smile touching her lips.  “Scarlet is your color.  Such a shame it isn’t in fashion.  Until later, Claire.”

“Until later, my Lady,” Claire agreed quietly, lowering her gaze.   

Under the cover of her lashes, she watched Marjolaine’s skirt sway in the moonlight as she walked away.  Lifting a trembling hand, she pressed it to her chest, a thrill of anticipation and fear rising.  Whatever had just happened, and whatever was yet to, she knew that it would be dangerous.  And thrilling.

Trying to regain her composure, feeling rather embarrassed to have been brought to such overt arousal by so few touches, she turned back to cradle one of the roses again, bringing it up to bury her face in the soft, fading petals.  Her fingers cradled under the bloom, eyes closing as she breathed in the last bit of summer, the rose slowly falling to pieces in her palm.  She dropped it with a cascade of petals, leaving it bare and sorrowful.

But in its death, it scored a blow, a careless hand catching on one sharp thorn.  It scored a line up her fingertip, stinging sharply.  Claire lifted her hand, staring at it in the moonlight.  A single drop of scarlet blood welled from the thorn’s counterattack, glistening in the moonlight.

She wasn’t sure if it was a warning, or a promise.

#Dragon age fanfic #Marjolaine x Bard OC #what can I say i like to write a bit of courtly lesbianism #so sue me #heaving bosoms are better when there's two of them #mentions of leliana and cassandra