iron-and-earth:

As long as he’d been living in Orlais, noticed or not, and as used to the air and people as he’d gotten, there was always something about almost anywhere in Orlais that made him roll his eyes with a humored contempt.  For a place that took so much pride in its glamour and glitz…

Maker’s ass, are these people stuffy!

The last place one would have expected to see him would have been one of the extravagant masquerades often put on by Orlesian nobility, regardless of it reasons for being, but he’d actually come to enjoy them, even if they were as stuffy as can be.  He was in his element, there; a cloak, colorful garb, perhaps a fancy hat (Leliana would have been pleased), and, above all, a mask.  Perhaps the tunic was a touch too flowery but it seemed the more obnoxiously he dress, the less likely he was to stand out.

Oh, the irony…

He stood in a particularly small circle, listening to a perfect stranger prattle on to three other perfect strangers about how the book store by the garden in the Val Royeaux bazaar had gotten a bit stranger since the Inquisition started growing in strength, and forcing a posh laugh every so often when the moment arose.  

Though he listened intently, his focus was elsewhere in the Winter Palace

After a moment’s more prattle, he felt a grip on his arm, nails poking firmly into his arm, and a familiar lilt and tease in a voice.  Turning to see the source of the grip and the giggle, his eyes widened, instantly forcing a laugh of his own.  He turned to the group, putting on his best accent, and waving his free hand dismissively toward them.

“Oh, do excuse me, dear friends, I must take my leave.  Au revoir!”

Had his accent been a singular touch more flowery, he’d have sprouted a petunia from his nose…

Accepting the grip on his arm, he guided her away from the group and toward a corner of the dance floor with a few less prying eyes.  Confident in the lack of people in earshot, he muttered to her.

“Well…fancy meeting you here…”

“I’m not here as far as anyone except Varric and House Helmi is concerned,” Marian responded and released his arm. “And that’s hardly an answer,” she cited, offended. Atticus had a bad habit of misdirecting her questions that didn’t concern Corypheus, food, or the odds of it raining. “I thought you were hiding out in Crestwood. This is an awfully broad and extravagant detour.”

They were drawing notice, or maybe the years on the run had made Hawke unduly paranoid. This was the largest crowd she’d been in that weren’t armed templars seeking to converge on her. She smoothed the red plume on her mask and leaned in closer; a gesture that would have appeared flirtatious to anyone watching. “Has there been a change in plans I should know about or were you just hoping for a dance with Sister Nightingale?” Hawke smirked and lifted her chin. “She’s on the upper level with the rest of the Inquisitor’s aides.”