Chapter Text
Isii had always liked Josephine. She was a good woman; sweet but direct, powerful in her own delicate way. She never appeared to have a problem with her being Dalish, unlike some of the other shemlen. Despite the vast differences that lay between them, Isii had always found the Ambassador a pleasure to talk to.
Now she was dangerously close to throttling her.
“Keep your head up, Inquisitor. You can’t keep staring at your feet.”
Isii clenched her jaw, scowling into Dorian’s chest. The steps were not too horribly difficult to manage. When she had practiced barefoot, alone in her room, the routine seemed remarkably easy. Now, with her feet shackled into cumbersome shemlen shoes and a partner in her arms, all grace fell away from her. While it was not difficult to keep time with the slow tune their bard played, she could not manage to place her feet correctly. She was tense with frustration as she knocked knees with the glib Tevinter, his smirk growing with each fumble.
“You’re quite wretched at this, you know.”
She looked up to his face, suddenly hating the height he bore over her. “Well perhaps if I had a better partner to lead me, I wouldn’t be tripping so much.”
He bent down, murmuring in her ear as he pulled her into another turn. “Maybe you’d prefer your little elven apostate?” His grin was smug as he leaned back.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh come now. It’s not as if you and Solas are a secret. The goings on in your bedroom are the talk to Skyhold. You should hear the things Sera has to say on the subject.” Isii scowled, looking away. “She blushes! So you have bedded him, then?”
Glaring, she stomped on his foot. The man yelped, surprised as she quickly stepped away, still holding him in the dance. A sweet smile crossed her lips. “Oops.”
He laughed warmly, leading her into the next step. “Message received, my Lady. But only because I know I’ll wear you down into giving me the details eventually.”
“Really now?” She asked.
“Oh yes. I can be quite charming. Look at this face. Is this not the face you would tell all your dirty little secrets to? If not, then I’m losing my touch.” She could not help but laugh, the sound shaking off some of her tension. As much as she disliked him prying into her private life so aggressively, he was the only one among her companions she’d be likely to tell if such provocative details existed. Dorian was a good friend. A sly and occasionally obnoxious tease, but a good man nonetheless.
“Focus, please.” Josephine pleaded.
Isii began the count again. She stood alongside Dorian, her hand held aloft in his own, taking a few measured steps before dipping into a sweeping curtsey. This part did not challenge her, nor the following steps where she pressed her palms to his own. It was when his hand slipped to her waist, trying to sweep her into a twirling pass that her feet lost their purchase. Confident strides became awkward shuffles as the Tevinter mage laughed.
“I cannot do this in these shoes.” Isii grumbled. “They are throwing me off balance.”
“You cannot go barefoot into the Winter Palace.” Josephine said.
“I’ve seen the way the Orlesians dress. They wouldn’t see my boots under a mountain of skirts.” She snapped, frustrated.
Josephine sighed impatiently as a low chuckle rumbled in Dorian’s throat. “Inquisitor, if you are going to play The Game, you have to look the part. In Orlais, appearances are extremely important. Every inch of you will be scrutinized, from your clothing to the way you move. If you do not present an image they respect, they will tear you apart. We have commissioned clothing and masks to be crafted for you and each of your attendants. Great cost is going into making certain the Inquisition leaves a positive impression on the court. You cannot throw that all away over a pair of heels.”
Dorian eyed the Ambassador with a grin. “Make certain my wardrobe shows a little skin, would you dear? I do hate those stuffy high collar numbers.”
The Antivan pursed her hips. “Once more, you two. Start from the beginning.”