( There's an element of mischief in the way her lips quirk, crooked, and she takes his arm as she rises. It lingers as she obliges him by leading the way to what has formed the heart of her home, the library a split-level masterpiece of architecture - twin staircases descending either side of the enormous hearth that acts as a centerpiece, soft and luxurious seating and low tables nearby. Not difficult to imagine her spending a great deal of her time here, as the shelves fill with titles of her choosing, and the room shows her hand and inclinations well-

and her pert bottom, a full length portrait of the lady of the house hanging above the fireplace. In oils she glances back over her shoulder, gaze lowered rather than looking directly at either the artist or the viewer, a soft robe she must have been wearing moments before she assumed the pose hanging from one hand, one foot slightly arched. It depicts in detail the scars she sustained from the claws of the rage demon, scraping around her torso and down the back of her left thigh; it is both beautiful and a testament to what brutality she's already survived.

Just think what she might do next, now that the worst has happened and she knows how much she is and is not still afraid of. )

My grandfather's natural son is an artist, ( she says, conversationally. ) He's painted all of my portraits,

( clothed and unclothed alike, )

and all of them before I was sent to Skyhold, after the rift I was caught by, but he was very understanding when this one arrived there and I wished to have my scars added to the finished work. It was supposed to be a gift, but I changed my mind.

( Keep it. Hang it up. Remind herself that she's still beautiful, that she survived, that there's not a single thing in all of Thedas that can make her less than herself, thank you.

And it's occasionally entertaining, seeing people turn poker faced when they walk in. )