[ A woman enters the speakeasy, one who had been familiar with its previous iteration (Delight's bar) and who is a frequent visitor to this new option, too. She groans faintly as she enters, pressing a palm to her forehead: the green glow of that palm does nothing to alleviate her pounding headache and general unhappiness with how this particular day is going.
Hair of the dog it is she thinks, grimly, approaching the counter. It's too bright there, naturally, so the Inquisitor only spends as much time up front as is necessary before obtaining a glass of a deep, red wine, turning to carve out her own corner of bitterness, when -
She nearly drops the glass. Even in the dark, she can see the hood, the small flashes of red, the glint of silver mail. It's all very familiar, though the last time she had seen this person had been in a nightmare, and the bard had been anything but a friend, then.
Cecily does not approach, but she does stare, and she does... dare to hope. ]
sorrow
Hair of the dog it is she thinks, grimly, approaching the counter. It's too bright there, naturally, so the Inquisitor only spends as much time up front as is necessary before obtaining a glass of a deep, red wine, turning to carve out her own corner of bitterness, when -
She nearly drops the glass. Even in the dark, she can see the hood, the small flashes of red, the glint of silver mail. It's all very familiar, though the last time she had seen this person had been in a nightmare, and the bard had been anything but a friend, then.
Cecily does not approach, but she does stare, and she does... dare to hope. ]
... Leliana?