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[color=e3c954] σρнєℓια тяєνєℓуαη[/color]
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With a great attempt, Ophelia's gracious smile did not falter once. In truth, she could not determine if the woman was playing a role, one who seemingly did not believe in consequences, or if this was truly who she was -- a jest in every sentence she spoke, and yet harboring not even a flicker of emotion in dire circumstances. A woman's throat had been slit in front of her and she did not even blink. Ophelia knew she would implement a request to have the tavern closed as soon as she made it back to Skyhold. An establishment as fickle as that one could not allow to stand so near to her home, or anywhere, really. It was simply barbaric. 

"You will be provided a ration of water and stew while in the cells. Should your sentence prove favorable, then you may be allowed in our tavern. Cadot will set you up rather nicely, so I'm told." She hardly found reason to step inside such a place. Bars were not to her liking and she preferred to keep her business away from prying ears. Shifting closer to Alba, who was still at the front of the group, Ophelia took note of the calculating gleam in the woman's blinding stare. It was much like peering directly into the sun and she dropped her gaze a split second later. 

"I know little of ships, though I am well-versed in geography and overseas procurement. You need not bother yourself with the Inquisition's status or position." Up ahead, billowing blue-and-gold banners waved at the group from the near distance. Ophelia spread her hands wide as the stone bridge and heavy metal gates appeared soon after. "We are doing quite well, I assure you," she proclaimed confidently, waving away the prisoner's unfettered concerns. Alba may have considered herself to have a silver tongue, capable of talking her way out of sticky situations or attempting to gather information with nothing more than an imploring stare, but as the Inquisitor, and as a woman from a highly-regarded noble family, she could smell the farce a mile away.

How many years had she suffered through the Orlesians silly games, always saying one thing but meaning something entirely different? One wrong move, one incorrect verbiage or phrasing, and you were cast out. She had learned what the quirking of pretty, painted lips signified; could feel the conversation shift with the slant of a kohl-lined eye, or the fluttering of a fan over a heaving, restrained bosom. She knew all the signs and knew when to play dumb. So she smiled coyly at Alba.

"You will meet Cassandra momentarily. Forgive me, but the bonds will not be removed until after your talk with our Seeker. I will not be present if that concerns you." As they stepped through the open gates, the guards blinked in a moment of confusion but immediately recovered. They had been expecting a party of four, not a party of ... well, a dozen and a half, at the very least. Ophelia stopped the taller woman in her tracks, tilting her head in unbidden interest. "Should you have any issues, take it up with the cell guards." With a curl of her fingers, Blackwall was at her side in an instant, still shouldering her hefty bag while the others drifted off to their respective posts. "We will meet again soon, Alba. Whatever story you spin, let it be a good one."
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A deep frown etched into her otherwise impassive features as Commander Cullen marched over and thrust the rationing sheet in her hand. She jerked away on instinct, surprised at the warmth in his touch even through his thick wool gloves. She shoved the paper deep into a spare pocket of her leather breeches. Her shift for the day would soon be over, and she made a mental note to stop by Fisher's cot in the infirmary tower, something the Inquisitor had erected not even a fortnight ago. 

"I harbor no great love nor hatred towards mages and yet ... I am concerned about the possibility of mutiny," Hyacinth admitted as she worried her bottom lip with her teeth, one palm outstretched on the door behind her. "Well, in any case, I should like a second opinion before involving the Inquisitor in their mess." She shook her head, dropping her gaze from the too-stiff soldier before her. "Perhaps next time she finds herself stuck between a rock and a hard place, she will consider other opinions and not implement a decision based on what [i]feels right[/i] to her." This time, Hyacinth did roll her eyes. As capable as Ophelia Trevelyan might be, her decision-making skills were not quite up to par. Were Hyacinth in charge, the mages would not have been considered an option -- no, she had half a decade to learn just how volatile mages were, and she was no exception to that rule.

First, however, she would notify Leliana of her whereabouts that night. Not that she expected anything of note to happen tonight: more complaining, likely, with the boldest ones declaring their intent to [i]show the world their true power[/i] which signified no real action, as usual. "When the sun goes down, meet me near the pavilion in the gardens. The others will form around the altar so we will stick to the shadows. See you then, Commander."

She grinned once, almost feral, and dipped out of his room. Fisher was only two doors down. Hyacinth ignored the other scouts littering the walls, stopping momentarily to deposit the rationing sheet with the healers. As she expected, Fisher was in deep slumber, flipped on his stomach to avoid irritating the open wounds on his back. With a grimace she quickly exited and found Leliana last, notifying her of the small group of mages gathering in the courtyard at night. "I suspect nothing beyond talking shall occur, but I will update you nonetheless." She failed to mention Commander Cullen would be joining her. Had he not inquired on unsavory business and troop morale, she would have continued to attend the late-night rendezvous alone; but he, along with the other advisors, had standards to uphold. He needed to see with his own eyes how his people were faring.