Meet with Josephine

The metallic tang of Leliana's armor still clung to your tongue when Josephine's perfume ambushed you in the war room - orange blossoms and desperation. Her quill paused mid-scribble across trade agreements, dark eyes widening at your disheveled tunic. "Inquisitor," she breathed, the Antivan lilt softening her alarm into something resembling maternal concern, "you can't receive the Nevarran delegation smelling of... rookery dust." Her gloved hand fluttered towards your collar before retreating, the gesture as carefully choreographed as her family's shipping contracts.

She steered you towards the stained glass window's fractured light, her gold-threaded sleeves whispering promises of legitimacy.

Her fingers danced across your chest with the precision of treaty negotiations, brushing away Leliana's musk with lavender-scented oils from Antiva's coastal groves. "Power," she chided softly, her breath warm against your ear as she fastened an embroidered sash around your waist "isn't wielded with brute **** here." The gold threads caught the fractured light like promises, her touch lingering just long enough to make you wonder whose loyalty she'd purchased with similar caresses.

Her hands trembled with the barest hesitation as she smoothed the ceremonial silks over your hips, the scent of her anxiety mingling with bergamot ink and crushed velvet. "They'll want to see weakness," she whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear as she fastened a pearl-encrusted cloak pin shaped like the Inquisition's eye. "Show them steel wrapped in silk." The sudden pressure of her thigh between yours carried the weight of a dozen unspoken trade agreements, her gasp when you gripped her waist carefully calculated.

Josephine's lips curved into the dangerous smile of trade princes renegotizing maritime rights, her gloved hand sliding down your chest with the predatory grace of Antivan contract law. "Diplomacy requires... flexibility," she murmured, her accent thickening like port wine as she guided your fingers to the hidden clasps of her brocade bodice.

The Antivan's breath hitched with practiced theatricality as the first pearl button slipped free, revealing flesh the color of sun-warmed parchment. "Every alliance needs ratification," she breathed against your collarbone, her teeth catching on the Inquisition's sigil chain like a merchant princess sampling foreign wares. The war table creaked beneath your weight as she pressed closer, her bodice's intricate embroidery imprinting the Chantry's flaming sword motif into your palm - a brand of holy commerce. Her gasp when you discovered the dagger strapped to her thigh carried the precise pitch of a renegotiated truce, the steel's chill a stark counterpoint to the heat pooling where her silk stocking met bare skin.

Josephine's transformation from courtly diplomat to carnal negotiator left you breathless - Antivan silk pooling around her knees as she sank with the grace of a merchant fleet lowering anchor. Her teeth caught your laces with the same precision that dismantled trade embargoes, the pop of each knot undone echoing like broken treaties.

Why?" The word cracked like a whip. "The throne's rubble barely cooled." Her laughter pooled low in your gut as she sank to her knees, silk whispering secrets against stone. "Power," she breathed, deft fingers working your belt, "isn't confined to cursed stone." The leather slithered free with a hiss. "You burned the chair, but the hunger remains." Her gloved palm pressed against your groin, hot through the linen. "Shall we teach it new tricks?"

Her mouth sealed around you with efficiency , the war room's map of Thedas blurred as she renegotiated borders with her tongue, Antivan silk rustling like surrendered battle standards around her knees. You gripped the edge of the table where nations were carved like roast pheasant, her moans vibrating through your flesh with the sensual cadence.

Her teeth scraped the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh, a calculated cruelty that made your fingers tangle in her elaborate braids. You tasted ink and iron on your tongue as she hollowed her cheeks, every obscene slurp echoing through the vaulted chamber like a perverted coronation. Through half-lidded eyes, you watched her gold-threaded bodice strain with each bob of her head—a merchant's daughter bartering in flesh and secrets, her moans pitched perfectly to carry through the cracked oaken doors. When you came down her throat with a gutteral Elvhen curse, she swallowed it like a signed treaty, lips glistening as she rose with courtly grace.

Her rhythm hitched as you spilled into that honeyed mouth that brokered a hundred peace treaties. Josephine's throat worked with the ruthless efficiency of a merchant prince liquidating assets, every swallow a ratified clause in their silent pact. When she rose, lips glistening like freshly inked signatures, her whisper carried the weight of harbor taxes at dawn: "My family will require your assistance soon, Inquisitor." The Antivan's retreat left silk whispers and bergamot lingering like trade route maps burned into flesh, her bodice refastened with the clinical precision of embargo documents sealed by candlelight.