Denerim in the springtime is a bit chillier than Kirkwall, and certainly muddier and browner, with dirt-and-dust streets and wood-shingled buildings rather than Kirkwall's omnipresent stone. But depending on one's perspective, it might arguably be a more pleasant place. The walls aren't so high and uniform, for one; for another, it's less striated, wits poor and wealthy patched mixed together like a salad rather than on opposite sides of the plate, with denizens of each social strata rubbing elbows in the same markets. There's more greenery, growing wilder than in Kirkwall's carefully planned garden beds upon the stonework, and this time of year some of it is blooming colorful as well. The days are getting longer, the skies are often clear, and the advent of the Landsmeet has made the city shake off any lingering signs of winter hibernation and come fully alive.

Riftwatch is not invited to the Landsmeet, exactly. It's a closed meet: the Queen and the nobles ensconced daily in a grand chamber to give speeches, consider matters, and vote. A Fereldan noble himself—albeit one without any land to meet about—the Ambassador does manage to ply a few invitations for himself and a rotation of plus-ones to spend an hour here or an hour there in the hall, silently observing some relevant debate to see how it plays out. But none of them are given free rein to hang out all day long.

Which is fine. The real negotiations aren't happening in the hall. They're happening in Denerim's taverns and inns, where debate does not have to proceed as a series of orderly speeches and nobles can trade favors (or threats) to sway their fellows' votes. These conversations are much easier to gain access to, whether by eavesdropping or by merely introducing yourself to someone who might invite you to sit down or ask you to take their side in an argument. Few of the matters being decided at the Landsmeet—land disputes, long lists of taxes—are of direct concern to Riftwatch. But making friends and learning what motivates them is always a concern, and will be useful come the day Riftwatch might need to ask any of them for favors. Whenever the members of Riftwatch's little delegation aren't busy in pursuit of their mystery Venatori, they're encouraged to spend their time talking to others.

Once the night winds down, there's a room upstairs in the Slack Sail Inn, near the harbor—a replacement for a slightly better collection of rooms at a slightly better inn, after they're pushed out by Landsmeet attendees with heavier purses. It's the kind of room that's often shared among traveling strangers, narrow beds for ten that only have a scattering of privacy screens between them and a communal washroom down the hall. But for some extra coins they've managed to reserve the whole room, no strangers allowed, and so within the room they may be as weird and speak as freely as they want.

OOC | Use this for RP or just for your background information, your choice!

It only happens once, that Bastien is alongside Benedict in the chamber. He stands beside him with his arms folded behind his back, looking very much like he's been here before, respectfully attentive but not especially impressed.

Only the attentive part is true.

The present topic of debate and discussion is not directly relevant to them. If it were—if it were yesterday's squirming about the continued presence of rifts in Ferelden's wilderness areas, or tomorrow's updates on the completion of repairs to the bridge and other targets of Tevinter sabotage during the invasion of the Free Marches—Byerly would be here, not Bastien. Today it's taxes. Relevant to defense, certainly, but in the dullest, least-Riftwatch's-business sort of way.

Bastien's fascinated anyway, for the most part. He's never seen a monarch openly negotiate with her subjects. But during some bann's particularly long speech on what percentage of their wheat yield they can spare to sell, he leans over to murmur to Benedict, "He looks like our dog." Droopy and sad-eyed.

The Landsmeet still ongoing, but with a general sense that it's on the home stretch and might be done tomorrow, perhaps the day after. If Queen Anora plans to announce a decision about her marriage at the end, as she's expected to, that means they only have so much time to decide what information to give her, about whom, and which of the men under consideration they ought to spend their last day here trying to fully unmask.

So they're meeting at midday, in their room at the Slack Sail. There's no table to meet around; your options are lying on a bed, sitting on the floor, or standing.

Bastien's the last to arrive, looking very much like he ran for a few minutes to avoid being any later. "Sorry," he says. He deposits a load of bread and a hunk of cheese at the foot of one bed and unstraps a sheathed knife to drop beside them—with a look and a gesture to make sure it's clear that's an invitation for anyone who likes to cut into them and eat—before heading for a basin to rinse his face. "We can start now, I'm—"

Rinsing his face. He circles a damp hand in a let's go sort of way. Don't wait for him to sit.