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The Inquisitor had made her gowns herself, to the surprise and utter horror of her Inner Circle. Vivienne had moaned about the ‘country bumpkin’ that would surely be their esteemed leader amongst a bevy of silk purses. Even though the entirety of Skyhold knew Sorcha had visited several cities just for her fabric alone or sent along the trader network for specific colors. But she let no one see the gowns, hiding them behind lock, key, and magical ward fashioned by Solas whenever she left her rooms.
Even packing the Inquisitor hadn’t allowed the three gowns to be seen. Three, because she knew no fete worth its salt in a place as decadent as Orlais would last a single night. Part of that determination is her own historical context from Earth. Part is remembering Thor’s stories. Part is imagining Stark as a king throwing a party. So, she told all of them, was it obvious they could not get away with simply being at the ball a single day, or it would look like a snub. That had shocked even Josephine, who often smiled smugly when Sorcha reminded everyone, she wasn’t some simple woman from a land no one knew of.
It wasn’t until she appeared ready for their announcement into the hall that anyone saw any of the gowns, and gowns they are. Solas felt his breath still in his chest. Sorcha, for a human woman, for a warrior, was a sight to behold, skin a golden bronze, hair a riot of blonde, and eyes a vivid electric blue that held people in place without effort on her part. But seeing her drenched in red and gold, in a dress he’d never seen a silhouette the like of, makes his blood thrum in inappropriate ways.
He would have to immortalize her like this, the real Empress in this farce of a nation. If he would not be allowed to forget the vision of her, a sweetheart neckline, gold lace pressed tight around her shoulders and dipping between the swell of her breasts, the red silk of her dress formed tight to her curves, sleeves gentle puffs that end at her elbows. The creation features a cloth of gold overskirt that seems buckled to her waist and gave her hips width they did not need but certainly benefited from. Her hair was down, and he had never known just how much hair she had. Now with its ruby and mithril net, all those twinkling gems casting red over her wheat-gold strands, it is a crown. She wears only the earrings she’d been found with, and a delicate bracelet of dawn stone for adornments.
Everyone, a thousand years from now, should know this moment, see it as he remembers it, spirits should form into her shape and the dramatic hush that falls as they enter the room with her at the head of their group. Soldier, she may be, but tonight Sorcha is a vision of temptation, edged in the promise of sin, somehow wrapping the package with a bow of regality.
He imagines her with painted adornment to highlight her neck, to bring attention to her shoulders, strong, skin smooth, far too smooth for her profession. He imagines her with her hair free, tumbling down her back, a coy, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile on her lips as she unbuckles that overskirt.
“The Inquisitor, Lady Sorcha Aibhilin-Victoria Rogers. First of her name, Herald of Andraste, Champion of the Mages, Champion of the Knights Redeemed, Champion of the,” they all blink when the court herald stumbles, but it’s clear why in a moment. “Champion of the Elvhen nation, leader of the Second Inquisition.”
Vivienne looks fit to be tied, but gasps as Sorcha dips into the most beautiful curtsey before the Empress any of them have seen her execute. She is almost at the floor, head dipped at an angle just shy of naming herself equal to Celene in a political move that sends tongues wagging. Though the women are blonde, regal, that is where the similarities end entirely. Her arms are spread in the mockery of a dancer’s form, and she holds it until Celene speaks, standing then and replying in a manner that seems to please the court at large. Then, she floats away, and Cassandra is called forward, her ridiculously long name causing some interest.
“Is it awful of me,” Josephine whispers to Leliana as the other members of Sorcha’s circle are introduced, “that I desperately hope no one attempts to attack Celene until the last night? I must see her other two gowns.”