The Marriage Trap

Merchant Prince Heraldo Esposito had so much money he could burn it. Since burning money was boring, instead, he created a bathing fountain of 100 year old wine, in which hired women dressed scantily could sway their hips and lick each other. Jorah and other men who attended the celebration could notice them or ignore them, depending on how married they were. It was Heraldo's daughter's sixteenth birthday, and the banquet hall was filled with the thirty and forty-year-old power players of the Antivan governing body. Heraldo's daughter, Sofia, was a little, pert girl with dark eyes and hair who loved rare-colored ribbons and burning her father's money on more dresses than there were days to wear them. In contrast, her father was a fifty-something stocky man with a bulbous nose, and a wreath of black shag for hair. Lipstick smeared his cheek from the entertainment he'd enjoyed earlier.

Jorah lackadaisically filled his cup from the wine fountain, even though servants opened fresh bottles for the guests. He said his hellos to the other vineyard landowners. This grand little party was something between a vacation and work, and when no one spoke to him for several minutes, his eyes glazed over as he stared out a window facing the ocean's slow-moving, distant ships. Jorah, the widow, felt painfully married, in an awkward way he didn't think anyone else in the room could understand.

Alone in this way, Jorah was one of the last to turn his head when Merchant Prince Heraldo Esposito's servant blew a horn for the party's attention. The rich man was standing on a little stage, his daughter in a fancy chair beside him, smiling in the fashion of Eularia.

[color=pink]"Blessings be! What a day it has been. I am so proud of my dearest Sofia, she reminds me so much of her mother. My beloved, sweetest grape, this day, now and henceforth, you are a proud Antivan woman."[/color] The party clapped, with the more drunken guests whistling and whooping, too. Esposito had to reach his hands up to stifle the clamor, as he oddly enough had more to say.

[color=pink]"As she is now sixteen years old, fully blossomed as the flower she was destined to be, she may fulfill the promise I made ten years ago. I am so very pleased to announce the engagement between my daughter, Sofia Giorgia-Milania Esposito to our Third, Jorah Eduoardo Mesonero!"[/color]

Jorah's eyes widened as he returned mentally the room. [color=orange]"....What?"[/color] he mouthed, looking around to find everyone reaching their sticky hands towards him, as if he were something to rub for luck. He had never once had a conversation about marrying Heraldo Esposito's daughter. Never! Was this some sort of misunderstanding? It had to be, but knowing Heraldo Esposito, it was most likely a very forced misunderstanding of when he may perchance called the man's five-year-old "a lovely child" and "someday a very good wife" in the off-handed way he thought children could be politely discussed.

Jorah ducked out of the way as confetti and bells exploded from color-paper decorations that hung from the ceiling. The musicians began to play a loud jive, and the crowd went nuts hoisting a man who resembled him up into the air (as Jorah had slide out from that spot). He found a door, and with all the discretion he could muster, opened it hoping to slip through and disappear before murder became the most clear solution. [color=orange][color=orange]"Esposito... You bastard.... How do I get out of this? I never made such a promise... Unless..."[/color][/color] he said to himself, gasping sharply with his hand on his forehead, the other on his hip, and the party's uproar muffled behind him.

While she and Sylaise had not quite made themselves known to the Council ruling and administrating the city, they had made Arlathan their base. The flock of elves and other travellers making their way through the network of Eluvians was vast, still difficult to navigate in some cases. It was easy to be turned around on the unfamiliar paths. Sylaise, in rarely leaving her sanctuary unless necessary, was of little help in aiding the Dalish which paths led directly to places, only a vague idea. There had been a few accidents, the group led, finding themselves in the right region, just miles, if not hundreds of miles off. This time was one of those and Megara was mentally kicking herself when they stumbled through into a room whose decor was slightly familiar.

Yes, Antiva City, but not a cupboard in some.. home she was unfamiliar with had been their destination. But this wasn’t the Royal Palace, nor the one in the Alienage. The first was a place the elf was very well acquainted with, helping raise most of the Campana children till they were around fourteen. She was hesitant in approaching Eularia however, the late King being one of the last of her old group, the healers family and friends, before chaos ripped the others from her. Francesco had always known what to say, even when his words would land them all in some sort of mischief.

Finding a servant had been easy, a grand party seemed to be going and not wishing to disturb anyone of importance with their presence, Meg pulled the group down towards the servant passages. She brightly explained their mistake, and assuring both the group with her warm charm, instructed them down and out, leaving the estate in an orderly manner. Until someone had mentioned leaving behind something. Taking it upon herself, Megara offered to return for the lost satchel asking them to wait, out of the way, for her return.

As Megara turned the corner, her small frame collided with another, knocking her to the side. Feet stumbled forward, hands splaying out to help correct her balance but failed entirely. One tie of her boot caught onto the lip of the other, the two opposing forces throwing her ahead. Hands met marble floor, then chest, the telltale thunk and proceeding half-squealed grunt all to telling of a possible injury. With the momentum she slid across the surface a short distance, simple given her lithe, willow form and short stature, Meg had always been a wispy example of her kin.

Letting her forehead meet the cool stone, she’d breath out a pained groan, the tone pitching at the end. [color=#008e02]“Ooooooow!”[/color] But of course, task driven she slowly made to push herself up to her knees, upper body righting as a hand pressed against one side. Eyes pinched close. It was nothing serious, a cracked rib perhaps, but a random elf wandering the halls of some Antivan nobleman, Talon or Merchant Prince wasn’t something to dally in doing. [color=#008e02]“Um… Sorry. Took a wrong turn. I’ll … I’ll just be.. going now.”[/color] A small hesitant laugh fell and in her haste to be as far away from whatever fancy and important thing was going on, she slipped again, dalish curses falling quietly from her lips.

Suddenly, a small rabbit of a woman collided with Jorah, a wall of spice and silk. Lucky for her, there were no protruding daggers at this moment, though an ornate curled dagger hung at his hip.

The woman fell flustered to the ground, knocking the crow back a couple of steps and defenestrating his vexing thoughts. He raised an eyebrow.... she looked familiar... Ah! When Julian was but a young lad, she would watch him and the other Campana boy. This lady was employed by Eulalia several years ago, when his children were still children. He had noticed her in the entourage for some time, for she did not sound Antivan, and had learned she was a foreign mage, employed for the sake of the young royals. Jorah looked around surreptitiously while the woman excused herself. No one had noticed them out here, at the fringe of the fiesta. The woman wobbled on her legs getting up to only start to fall again, only this time, Jorah's hand was there like lightening.

[color=orange]"M'lady, you are hurt. Enough, I will handle this," [/color]he spoke with a gentle caress. He had caught her back, and now, he scooped up her legs. He felt mildly gallant as he picked up her slim frame, but his conscious quickly stepped on such self-applause. There could be no pride in false affection.

[color=orange]"I will treat you well, do not be frightened. Do not strain yourself, for it shall only worsen the ailment. Do not stir." [/color]

He spoke with a touch of command in his shamelessly thick Antivan accent, watching her face for the wrinkles of reluctance he could smooth over. He wanted her to come with him. He had many more wrinkles to smooth over inside the hall of the merchant prince, and perhaps, a faint looking foreign woman could solve his current dilemna.

Francesco had invited her to Antiva. Well, had begged her really. The reality of parenthood terrified him, a daunting task for anyone but the King had enough problems to deal with in grappling with a birthright he had wrestled with all his entire life. He and Eularia required someone as trustworthy as Albert to mind the fledgling Campana’s. The boys were easy, Adaria not so much, but Megara doted on them equally, loved them as she would her own. Leaving had been difficult though in her heart the elf knew she had remained too long when Crow’s took a closer interest in you. Fauna and Flora were her passion, creating new drafts of healing and aiding those less fortunate, unlucky in the hand dealt to them. So, she returned to the Inquisition for a time, aiding travellers and the forces within, until the veil fell. With Arlathan now established and thriving, a piece of the Goddess awakened within her, heading back there made sense to Meg.

Adjusting to becoming a sort of Eluvian navigator was taking much longer, however. This trip would be its prime example of how a small misjudgement created chaos.

A hand came to steady her, Meg’s face turning to look but snapped back as gravity upended itself. Surprise bubbled out of her, [color=#008e02]“Uh what the-?!”[/color] but her words ended as she found herself encased in the arms of the man she’d run into. Green gems looked to her feet, now off the ground with him carrying her. Brows rippled, unsure and not at all keen on being manhandled by someone, especially a stranger when she was perfectly able to leave. [color=#008e02]“I’m fine, I can fix it. I’m a.. I’m a mage,”[/color] a hand shifting to try and peel his grip, though then came that telltale tone. The accent reminder her of where exactly she was, stilled any further attempt to escape his hold.

Suspicion slipped into her brow as the two stared at each other. [color=#008e02]“...I’m not a wench either, so don’t get any ideas,”[/color] the quiet threat was followed by a brief narrowing of her eyes. She didn’t need offensive magic to set him on his ass if he tried to get handsy. In an small act of defiance, the petite mage stuck her tongue out at him, quickly retracting it before he entertained ideas of cutting it out.

Jorah carried her around the corner. The Birthday Party bustled about him and this found-woman in his arms, a cacaphony of fiddles, hysterical giggles, and splashing tinkle of ample wine. He first scoped out the birthday girl. The distant young lady's brow was furrowed, and she made questioning glances about the hall from her gaudy, high chair, but for now, she remained seated. Good, it meant he had some time to set up.

[color=orange]"Me? An idea? You over-estimate me," [/color]he humbly consoled the woman with a lick of humor to smooth over her edges. [color=orange]"Mage or not, I am responsible for what seems to be a weakened ankle? Hospitality is due and I am not ungracious. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Jorah Mesonora, the Third. You are in honorable hands," [/color]he reassured. The guests around them crossed their path, absorbed in their pleasures. A horde of adolescent girls chased one with a long ribbon in a rowdy game of Keep Away. A dancer led a young man, whilst dancing in front of him, to walk through the spray of a fountain. A couple of investors, perhaps from Denerim, wobbled past them on canes whilst critisizing the jamboreous music. A waiter, stepping briskly, offered his last crystsl goblet of fine wine to Jorah, which the Talon took and offered to his future excuse as a gesture to the hospitality he had refered to seconds ago.

Finally, they reached a part of the hall tressed in couches and automans of silk, suade, and feather. The more extravagently dressed retired here to rest their feet and pick at the heaping platters of imported candy-like fruit, bowls of puffy cream, and honey-coated flowers. Their languid gazes wordlessly watched Jorah place  the woman on a couch to recline, as they fanned their signature perfumes into an elaborate aroma of wealth. The crow was diligent to treat her as a fragile parcel. [color=orange]"Healing takes energy, and at the very least, you should remain until your reserves are replenished... Now-" [/color]he said to the brunette mage who did not look at all as though she belonged in such a place, only to be interrupted by a meaty finger tapping his shoulder.

Jorah looked up to his other side, [color=orange]"Oh, Heraldo," [/color]he said with false surprise. Jorah's concerned face cracked with a charming smile as he beheld the merchant prince padded with intricately embroidered silks. In an instant, he convinced himself to become blissfully unaware of the betrothal announcement made minutes ago.

[color=pink]"Jorah, Ahah! There you are! I was wondering where you had gotten off to. But... who is this?"[/color] queried the master of the extravaganza. Heraldo had a smile plastered on his face as he looked between Jorah and the woman, chuckling awkwardly.

Where were they going? Eyes widened as the elf noticed, the man taking her through into the ballroom and party. Shit. This wasn’t good. Instinct had her shrink further into his arms, wishing to appear as small and unnoticeable as possible. An impossible feat given how he was carrying her, the

Her brow creased, confused, biting back words as she was carried through a den of possible assassins. They all appeared to be enjoying themselves, though all too soon heads were turning, words whispered into ears as the two made their way through. Warmth filled her cheeks and Meg set her eyes back on her feet, cursing every decision that landed her here. Being a good samaritain really did come back to bite her in the ass this time.

I am Jorah Mesonora, the Third.

Meg’s eyes blinked, confused at first. The third? The third wha-? The question didn’t finish formulating, realisation finally hitting her. Her supposed ‘rescuer’ was a fucking Talon. Meg audibly gulped, but the subsequent addition of ‘honourable’ had her snorting loudly, disapproval heavy across her forehead. The Talon’s were responsible in some way for her dear friend’s death, they could go fuck themselves. “Forgive me for not believing a word of that,” she answered stiffly, body wrecked with a new layer of tension.

[color=#008E02]What the hell have we walked into Sy?[/color]

I do not know… let’s observe for now.

Something was amiss, but what, she couldn’t put her finger on. At any other time Meg perhaps would have responded differently, yet stumbling across a party, let alone one held where Talon’s were in attendance, and being forced to gatecrash it set her suspicions soaring. It may have been a decade since she had ran with the Coterie, but one never forgot their roots.

A slyness curled at the corner of her lips. Her reserves were full, already magic was weaving, encouraging tissue and bone to mend itself. Although she’d have to lay a hand over to check, ensure that it was fully repaired, yet the behaviour of Jorah stayed her palms from untucking from under her chin. And then another man approached, requiring the Master Assassin’s attention.

[color=#008E02]“I’m just leaving, my name’s not important,”[/color] Meg blurted out, chuckling hesitantly before glancing between the two men. Oh to be a fucking ant at this moment would have been heaven to avoid the growing unease coiling in her gut. Shrinking into the couch’s back, Meg made the decision to snap her mouth shut unless asked… perhaps that way she might survive the soiree and make it back to Arlathan in one piece.

Jorah knelt beside the foreign mage while she laid on the couch, reaching for a fanciful treat and placing it on the red-lacquered side table carved with bouquets of flowers. Concern was spread heavily across his brow, as he lightly patted her hand despite her crossed arms.

[color=orange]"Da'mis, rest, there is no better place to recover than under the wings of hospitality of the kind Heraldo Alphonso Esposito, right, Heraldo?"[/color]

[color=pink]"Da'mis...?"[/color] said Heraldo with a twinge of outrage. Jorah arose, seemingly oblivious to Heraldo's question. He slapped a hand of the pudgy man's shoulder, laughing about what he was going to say next. The red-faced Heraldo jumped a bit at the touch, and looked as uncomfortable as Megara.

Jorah began: [color=orange]"You know, old friend, I had stepped out for but a moment for some air, and when I returned a few moment ago, I found her falling down all over herself. Do you know what might have happened? Perhaps all the wine fountains are spilling everywhere ahahahah, how slippery are your floors! What a mess your hall is, but I like it like this!"[/color] Jorah laughed jovially and gave the merchant prince another hefty pat on the shoulder. Then he leaned in, and in a low tone only someone who could read lips might make out, said in a few more words. [color=orange]"She is with child. I hope, for your sake, nothing has shaken her nerves while I was outside."  [/color]He dropped the lie in Heraldo's ear so quietly, and in a baleful tone.

Then, Jorah leaned back, a picture of good cheer. Meanwhile, Heraldo's lip seemed to quiver, and Jorah continued to speak at a conversational volume. [color=orange]"Now, whatever secrets your vineyard uses, they are masterful. Please excuse me, I miss the taste already!"[/color] Patting Heraldo one more time, he left the two alone together with an eye on a bottle of wine several tables away. Heraldo gawked at him as he walked away, and when he looked out of earshot, he looked meekly at Megara, bowing his head.

[color=pink]"Please, m'lady, please do not tell him. I will rescind it all,"[/color] he said hurriedly down to her, bowing his head at the neck a few times.

note: da'mis a term of endearment in dragon age elven. it means 'little blade', and often is used by and older person to a younger person who gets straight to the point, and it can be used between romantic relationships, friendships, and family relationships. i read about it on tumblr. its up to you on if megara knows this or not, but just thought i'd let you know.

[font=Arial, serif]There was a distinct slow series of blinks from the mage as the dalish fell from his lips. Meg turned her head slowly, fixing him with an impassive stare all while a light of confused outrage glinted in her eyes. Her tongue caught between teeth, she stayed correcting the story being played out instead following the conversation and scene in an attempt to garner some understanding. [/font]

[font=Arial, serif]We are a convenient pawn, a distraction. Remain calm. [/font]

[font=Arial, serif]Taking comfort from the goddess, Megara relaxed, the tension in her shoulders eased though remained ready if a quick escape or magic was required. Listening, she had to suppress scoffing at his explanation. Dressed as a traveller, she had no fancy robes, no dainty shoes like the ladies around. The dalish stood out like a sore thumb regardless of the points sticking out, either side of her head. Still, he had her right on one count. Falling over herself was a daily occurrence. Gravity, it seemed, continually wished to make the elf her bitch. [/font]

[font=Arial, serif]She strained to hear what the Talon whispered, only catching pieces and even those were difficult to comprehend with the general commotion rippling around the room. It was enough of a threat the poor mad’s soul looked about ready to depart his fleshy suit to go join the Maker. Meg breathed a chuckle through her nose, body quickly reminding her of the mild injury with the flare of a dull ache. Eyes squinted against the pain and upon investigating - by snaking a hand under her outer layers and up her shirt - she discovered the faint crack. Nothing serious, but still incredibly uncomfortable and limiting. [/font]

[font=Arial, serif]Before she was able to attend to it, the man Heraldo seemed to plead with her over something. Green eyes shifted to appraise him, gaze shifting over him. Meeting his gaze and without any idea as to how she should respond the elf offered him her biggest smile. It filled her face, all Megara’s natural warmth oozed through. [color=#008e02][font=Arial, serif]“Um… probably for the best, yes,”[/font][/color] confirming with a firm nod before adding, [color=#008e02][font=Arial, serif]“You know how he can get.” [/font][/color][/font]

[font=Arial, serif]Sylaise chuckled, while in her mind Megara shrugged, thinking it the best course, the only true answer. Her knowledge limited, it was better to let the man’s own imagination take care of it.[/font]

[color=pink]"Of course, I know, I know,"[/color] Heraldo echoed.

He profusely nodded, his hands clasping over his pristine silk merchant dress. He averted his eyes back to where the Talon was selecting a bottle from a table where they were ornately arranged.

[color=pink] "Please enjoy yourself. I recommend the apricots. They are good for the belly,"[/color] he finally sweated before abruptly pardoning himself and hurrying back to his daughter.

A beat of a chorus later, Jorah returned with an uncorked bottle. An aloofness hung on him. His body was turned towards Megara, but clearly aloof eyes watched Heraldo turtle away into the crowd.

Jorah squeezed himself onto the couch, unfettered that her feet might touch his thigh if she didn't draw them back some. He took a swig of the wine, whale eying the merchant prince even still. Then he rubbed his chin, and swung his head properly to look at the woman on the couch. He asked the woman beside him as if they had already developed a casual repertoire:

[color=orange]"What did he say to you? Did he say anything about me?"[/color] His smooth Antivan accent thinly veiled a vulnerable and earnest tone.

[font=Arial, serif]While an air of uncertainty was obvious in her expression, the elf remained smiling. Heraldo seemed to easily make his own assumptions to how the Talon would respond or how the man would take any infraction against him. This was why she stayed firmly out of politics or shady deals with such people. Francesco had been an exception, but then he always had a sneaky shadow following her and the children, keeping them all out of harm’s way. [/font]

[font=Arial, serif]The comment about apricots pulled her brows together but he was scampering off before she could utter a word. Meg hated apricots, but something else was becoming clear to her. Ivy eyes fixed on Jorah as he squeezed back into the couch with her, feet retreating back so the elf’s knee’s were about level with her chin. Arms curled around, gently hugging them to her chest. A ripple of discomfort flashed through her face, but she had to answer and then ask. [/font]

[font=Arial, serif][color=#008e02][font=Arial, serif]“I think you already know the answer to both of those questions,” [/font][/color]she offered, tone only mildly warm. Now in the middle of this soiree she couldn’t drop the fasade of them being well acquainted with one another. [color=#008e02][font=Arial, serif]“I think, whatever thing you were being asked, has conveniently been dropped.” [/font][/color][/font]

[font=Arial, serif]And since he felt comfortable enough to use it, the elf continued in softly mumbled dalish. [color=#008e02][font=Arial, serif]“A little heads up about my sudden immaculate conception, would have been appreciated, Da’mis.”[/font][/color]
[/font]