Josephine is beautiful, her face given a golden glow by the candle burning merrily on her board. Nazaan has seen the writing there - notes taken in a delicate hand, penned with a practised ease, and ideas and plans for requesting nobles’ assistance in closing the Breach. Nazaan’s own skin is given a sickly pallor by the mark’s glow, the green clashing with the cold grey, highlighting the imperfections. The shadows of the chantry do nothing to disguise her imposing figure, even as the golden carvings make her feel small and destructive at the same time. She has heard the story of Anders. She knows why mages should be feared, even by themselves.
The war room makes her feel henned in, trapped, but Josephine’s sunny disposition reminds her of light bouncing off of flowers, making the pollen almost glow. When Nazaan sees her outside the chantry for the first time, bidding a noble a polite and kind farewell, the gold of her outfit and skin alike glows brighter than any flower Nazaan has ever seen. Nothing she knows can compare, but she wonders if Josephine’s hair would look even more gorgeous when accented against the gold and green of embrium.
It takes a while for Nazaan to find the flower. Embrium grows sparsely in the Hinterlands, flowers already plucked by refugees fighting illness and fever, discouraging Nazaan to take from the already lackluster supplies of the area. The thought of embrium growing in the Fallow Mire is enough to make her laugh, but she braves corpses and uncleanliness alike to pluck dawn lotus from the swampy waters, admiring the pink that can be seen even in the dim light. Varric watches with an amused eye at her steadily increasing frustration at the ridiculous lack of embrium, and soon Nazaan has all but given up. Dawn lotus doesn’t have the striking gold of embrium, but it will go just as well with Josephine’s silks.
All the same, she continues looking for it. Crestwood is sodden and soaked, damp with rain and containing the type of frigidness that comes from low spirits. Every now and then, Nazaan’s party chances across rifts forcing through demons, the despair clinging to them chilling the air. They are no match for the flames that burst forth from the jagged crystal of her staff. It’s after such an occurrence, after the rift has been closed by the pulsing, tugging connection, that she sees it.
The flower is wet from the ever-present rain, dewdrops glistening on the leaves and highlighting the red within the gold. Nazaan plucks it gently, reverently, careful not to crush any part of it. Her hands have so much potential to destroy, and she will not sully this. She places it a wide-rimmed bottle, storing it in her satchel. A part of her is tempted to cast a barrier over the precious plant, but her anxiety tells her all the things likely to go wrong if she tries.
It is a small miracle that the flowers Nazaan has collected make it to Haven in pristine conditions, but she would summon many more to see the smile Josephine graces her with upon seeing them once more.
The diplomat’s office in Skyhold is a thing of beauty, Josephine decides. The fireplace burns merrily, the scent of the wood carrying promise of alert mornings and comforting evenings. The couch is far more comfortable than she would have expected, especially with the need for funds, but appearing greater than suspected is an important part of the Game. The flowers the Inquisitor brings her sit on the mantelpiece, brightening the room and making it more homely. Lady Adaar's sweetness is another thing Josephine had not expected, especially after hearing Cassandra’s perspective on the Tal-Vashoth. Josephine knows better than any that Cassandra is prone to acting without much thought, something that many many etiquette lessons have brought to light.
Josephine looks up from writing her envoys when she hears the sound of her door opening, and her eyes widen slightly at surprise at the sight of the Inquisitor, carrying yet more flowers for Josephine. The attention is flattering, nice even, but it prompts Josephine to ask something she has been questioning for a while.
“My lady, are you attempting to court me?” she asks while the Inquisitor arranges the flowers delicately, careful not to crush the petals or leaves.
Lady Adaar still in her movement at the question, ears turning purple in embarrassment. She places the last of the flowers on the mantelpiece and turns, gaze cast to the floor as she wrings her hands nervously. It is endearing, if worrying. Josephine stands, moving over to the Inquisitor. The fire is warm against her legs, and contrasts the Inquisitor’s skin beautifully, especially with the blue of her tunic.
“I only ask because, well, you’ve been incredibly kind to me, Inquisitor,” Josephine explains, voice soft, “The candles, the flowers, providing the kitchens with supplies and helping them make me pastries-”
“I’ll stop, if it bothers you! I just- I’m so sorry, I really shouldn’t have-” the Inquisitor interrupts, stammering her apologies. She raises her hands up, stepping away from Josephine and stumbling slightly. The purple has vanished, replaced by a pale fear that Josephine wishes she could brush away.
“No, it doesn’t bother me at all! I… thank you, Inquisitor.”
“Nazaan,” the Inquisitor says, looking up. The purple flush has returned, but it’s less vibrant than it was. “Call me Nazaan. Josephine, may I…”
Josephine reaches up to take the Inquisitor’s hands in her own, marvelling at the softness of the returned grip.
“Of course, Nazaan,” she answers, tilting her head up.
Nazaan’s lips are as gentle as her hands.