Alistair Theirin
King of Ferelden
Canon Character
Noble
Grey Warden
Post DAI Timeline
DAO/DA2 Timeline
- Posts
- 123
((16 Cloudreach, 35 Dragon, Evening; @Constance Theirin ))
Dinner had been superb, as usual. Claude had worked his usual magic, offering a choice of beef merlot or roasted capon tender enough to fall off the bone, along with a salad of the season's earliest greens and making good use of the contents of the root cellar: herbed potatoes and acorn squash simmered in maple syrup with just a touch of something spicy to offset the sweetness. And his trademark chocolate cake bread pudding with a blackberry reduction, served with whisky-laced cream. And since Alistair had taken the precaution of consuming a hefty late afternoon snack, he was able to eat with decorum, rather than bolting down the food like a starving mabari.
Dinner had been served in the small dining room, saving him from having to bellow to the end of a table meant to seat forty (don't laugh; he'd seen some do it, protocol apparently trumping common sense), and allowing the chef to choose the wines had been another wise move on his part, though he was careful not to imbibe too deeply.
Conversation flowed smoothly; there was no end of real matters of state, after all (he was quite sure he'd be asked to sign treaties, trade agreements and proclamations on his deathbed...they certainly had no compunction about disturbing him in the loo). The Teyrna offered her opinions, and he was pleased to discover that a growing number of them mirrored his own thoughts; perhaps he was learning this king thing, after all. Even when their opinions did not coincide, her suggestions were worthy of consideration. She tended to favor hard-line stances that would reinforce his authority, and even when he thought her proposed measures a bit too extreme, there was no denying that his natural tendency to want to please everyone was not one that could – and had – led to problems in the past that had required even more of his time to correct.
The last of dinner finished (and the urge to lick the bowl the bread pudding had been served in successfully resisted – barely), he stood. “Would you care to get a bit of air?” he invited her as casually as possible.
The balcony off the small dining room overlooked the formal gardens, the night pleasantly cool without requiring a cloak, a waxing moon shining overhead, surrounded by stars. “I did have one more matter to discuss with you, if you don't mind,” he began as butterflies the size of sparrows began looping in his stomach, the little box in his hip pouch weighing a ton.
Dinner had been superb, as usual. Claude had worked his usual magic, offering a choice of beef merlot or roasted capon tender enough to fall off the bone, along with a salad of the season's earliest greens and making good use of the contents of the root cellar: herbed potatoes and acorn squash simmered in maple syrup with just a touch of something spicy to offset the sweetness. And his trademark chocolate cake bread pudding with a blackberry reduction, served with whisky-laced cream. And since Alistair had taken the precaution of consuming a hefty late afternoon snack, he was able to eat with decorum, rather than bolting down the food like a starving mabari.
Dinner had been served in the small dining room, saving him from having to bellow to the end of a table meant to seat forty (don't laugh; he'd seen some do it, protocol apparently trumping common sense), and allowing the chef to choose the wines had been another wise move on his part, though he was careful not to imbibe too deeply.
Conversation flowed smoothly; there was no end of real matters of state, after all (he was quite sure he'd be asked to sign treaties, trade agreements and proclamations on his deathbed...they certainly had no compunction about disturbing him in the loo). The Teyrna offered her opinions, and he was pleased to discover that a growing number of them mirrored his own thoughts; perhaps he was learning this king thing, after all. Even when their opinions did not coincide, her suggestions were worthy of consideration. She tended to favor hard-line stances that would reinforce his authority, and even when he thought her proposed measures a bit too extreme, there was no denying that his natural tendency to want to please everyone was not one that could – and had – led to problems in the past that had required even more of his time to correct.
The last of dinner finished (and the urge to lick the bowl the bread pudding had been served in successfully resisted – barely), he stood. “Would you care to get a bit of air?” he invited her as casually as possible.
The balcony off the small dining room overlooked the formal gardens, the night pleasantly cool without requiring a cloak, a waxing moon shining overhead, surrounded by stars. “I did have one more matter to discuss with you, if you don't mind,” he began as butterflies the size of sparrows began looping in his stomach, the little box in his hip pouch weighing a ton.
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