Parlor
Solas wasn't sure precisely why he'd agreed to go to this affair except that Evelyn had wanted him to and he wanted her to be happy. Or, if not happy, at the very least content.
He found the clothes uncomfortable - too scratchy, too stiff, too heavy. And he had to bear the indignity of shoes. He'd never worn shoes a day in his life. Crammed into too much fabric, feeling restricted and constricted, he did his best to keep his expression neutral. He failed.
Granted, he was also exceptionally cranky. On three separate occasions so far, he'd been approached by staff who asked him if he'd like them to take his hat. He'd refused. Politely. The first time. The hat had to stay on, defying whatever ludicrous social constructs this society adhered to, because of his ears. At least they hadn't vanished when he'd stepped into this particular room. He wasn't sure he could cope with humans being human while he was also human.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he turned his attention to the woman telling fortunes. As far as he could tell, she was a charlatan. It was possible her magic was undetectable to him, but no one could tell the future, not even the greatest elvhen dreamers had the power. There was simply too much that could change between now and then, too many possibilities.
"Ludicrous," he muttered to himself, and then something else, something in elven, the cadence rolling and lyrical. Still, it clearly communicated his annoyance.