The hour is late. The guests are weary. Children doze in their chairs. The minstrels pluck half-heartedly at their lyres.
The feast's business is done.
Available actions[]
1.
The Divine is pleased She kisses your cheeks like a sister. "I have issued the decree, your Grace..."
Requires: 5 Divine's Favor
Result: Beginnings "...Serault’s Shame will be stricken from the record. Her honor is restored. In truth, I doubt it could ever truly be taken from her." That night you sleep a deep, just sleep, untroubled by dreams. You are woken by doves cooing at your window. The sun is rising. The sky is the colour of rose-gold. It takes the Divine’s party most of the day to leave for the peace talks. Bleary Templars drill in the courtyard to clear their wine-fogged heads. Advisers haggle and intrigue, jockeying for a position at the head of the procession. Servants cram belongings into bags, pile the bags onto mules, and coax the mules - solemn and whickering - into the column. It is afternoon before the cavalcade passes through the town gate. You stand atop the Tower of Lights and watch them pour, slow as treacle, along the eastern road. The Divine will carry word of Serault’s absolution to all of Orlais. A westerly wind stirs. A new wind, bearing an early hint of summer: soft honeysuckle, dry grass, boastful thunder. Your counselor calls from below. "Your Grace? You are needed in the great hall. An emissary from Claose has been murdered on the road. He carried a silver box, sealed with lead. It had been forced open. Inside were the remains of a letter. Burnt." Duty calls. You turn to the stairs. Serault awaits you. Serault is free of her shame!
2.
The atmosphere is strained The Divine retires to her quarters for the night. Her farewell is courteous, not warm.
Result: Disappointment Despite your weariness, you find little sleep. Your dreams are all of how things might have gone differently. It takes the Divine's party most of the next day to make ready for their departure. The atmosphere is taut. Grim, sharp-eyed templars cluster in the courtyard. Servants pack in silence, packing backs, loading wagons. The Divine's advisers whisper to one another, eager to be gone. You don't bid the Divine farewell. Instead, you watch from atop the Tower of Lights as her procession pours from the city gates and along the eastern road. There is no chanting this time, no song. Serault's shame persists. She will remain on the edge of things: misunderstood, unwanted, forgotten. An easterly wind stirs, a tang of early summer: dry grass, hot steel, dust. A voice calls from below. Your counsellor. "Your Grace? You are needed. The Cheery Baron is sorely ill. The physicians say he over-indulged last night, that he may not live. He says there is something he has to tell you. Something about your mother..." You turn. You and Serault are bound together. One and the same. She will need you, in the days to come.
