half hoping to be eaten by a bear

The gossip sheets, a repeating ad run on a monthly basis.

A lady of House Obsidian offers patronage to any individual who can demonstrate – through the scientific arts – that which cannot be accomplished by any known magic. Inquire at the Cobbled Swan.

---

Ilaria waited in the empty tavern, brewing tiny cups of strong tea from a palm sized teapot and listening to the dull murmur of noise from the street. In all honesty, she had forgotten about the ad she’d placed in the papers some seasons ago. Up until now, there had been no serious takers. Receiving a card from one Marcellus Fontana had been quite the unusual surprise.

Primarily because the man did not seem to exist, at least as far as Tevene high society was concerned. His family did, of course. Indeed, there were a fair few Fontanas scurrying about, intermarrying and amassing a modest fortune. Ilaria had stopped her cursory investigation there, far short of making her presence felt. It was always more interesting to gather information in person.

So she sat patiently, alone and draped in enough jewels to buy half of docktown. The novelty of this apparent helplessness was thrilling. She hadn’t had an opportunity to cut loose in so very long.

Nibbling delicately on a sugar cookie, Ilaria almost hoped that Marcellus Fontana was a crook. Burning down the Swan was just the sort of diversion that would liven up this dreary winter day.

@Marcellus Fontana

Marcel had come a long way in his years since fleeing Tevinter, lived what felt like a lifetime away from his family and former friends, all because he didn’t want to continue the tradition of forced servitude to Tevinter’s military, his family refusing to use their money or influence to get him out of it, since they’d always been disappointed in their son without magic.

Now the barrier was down and he was back, hoping to use the research he’d learned from Rosalie to keep him out of the reeducation program, assuming anyone in Tevinter still cared that he fled military service.

Marcel pushed open the door to the Cobbled Swan with his shoulder, his hands preoccupied with balancing a precarious tower of notes, sketches, and what appeared to be a half-empty inkpot perched atop the stack. His entrance was less grand and more… chaotic. A stray parchment escaped, fluttering to the floor, but Marcel didn’t seem overly concerned. Instead, he called out in a chipper voice.

Hello? Lady Obsidian? Or am I dreadfully early and about to terrify some poor tea enthusiast?

@Ilaria Obsidian