Thank you so much for joining in the giant snow battle. Your team was amazing.
As well as having a tab all organised at the tavern for when everyone is back from Orlais so you can all catch up and relax, please find enclosed an extra prize. It should keep you safe from any nasty chills, and give your attacks a little extra oomph. Everyone in your team is getting one, so you can always remember that you’re all a lot cooler than the rest of us. Sorry it took so long to get it to you, I needed to visit this place in Orlais to get it organised.
Stay awesome.
Best regards,
Ruby
( Enclosed there is a silver ring, with a yellow band running through it that looks like it could be crystal and catches the light.
The ring is cool to the touch, and provides a little boost to ice attacks, or adds an ice element to any weapon wielded while the ring is worn. The ring will also add some protection against cold attacks. It isn’t a super duper powerful ring, but it will give a bit of an edge in a fight, or just make any future snowballs hella hardcore. Damn, son. )
I'd like your advice. As an architect with an Orlesian sense of aesthetic.
I'm making an artifact that going to go in the Gallows to magically fortify it against the elements and time. How would you incorporate such an artifact, and what would it be?
Of course, mademoiselle. It would be my honor to advise on the subject. Before we begin, may I compliment you upon your wisdom in selection me for such advisement? You have truly designated the best in the Inquisition. There is no other who will provide such opinions and deep sagacity to this topic.
Now. First I must ask: are there any restrictions magically that will need to be considered, in the design of this object? I will confess that my knowledge of magical artifacts is but the knowledge of a student, a collector, and not a person of such gifts myself. Does a hard right angle impede the flow of the magic? Please, speak.
[ The next time Val opens the doors of... wherever he's claimed as his office, he'll be greeted by the squeaks, hisses, and chattering of at least a dozen rats and squirrels. A pigeon squawks, disconsolate, from somewhere near the ceiling where the seagull's trapped it. There's a large, suspiciously exotic snake in a drawer —
[Left in Val's office is a stack of tidy notes as promised on the Blight and what Anders has discovered in working to understand it further and hopefully find a cure. There's a note on top:
Call me on the crystals if you've any questions. Anders.]
one (1) original draft, with notes and rewritings and the odd scored out line, of the same piece of poetry that Val had once recited to the Inquisition. It has been signed neatly 𝒢wenaëlle 𝒱auquelin, nom de guerre ℐlde 𝒮auvageon in the lower right corner, and she has had it pressed behind glass and framed for him, then wrapped in velvet and tied with a ribbon.
Just to really nail it home. With it, a short message: )
I was made aware by Gwenaëlle that you have returned to the Inquisition once more. My own affairs after arriving in Kirkwall kept me too busy to seek you out but I wished to inform you that the deed with your mother is done.
[ When Val — at some point, presumably — wakes, he'll find that he's received a terribly mysterious written invitation to meet with the dwarven owner of an extensive private library. A stranger (terrible, mysterious) may already be waiting.
Val doesn't have to actually accept the invitation. Not intentionally. Should he ignore or otherwise attempt to circumvent its summons, a chain of coincidences (terrible, mysterious, you get it by now) and well-timed accidents will conspire to get him there roughly on time.
The invitation is beautifully calligraphed, and requests that Val's inestimable expertise be lent to reviewing the accuracy of translated diary pages, written by a Tevene scholar known for his studies of dragons. This is true: The diary pages are definitely about dragons. They are also definitely lewd fanfiction about dragon furries.
It’s quite a nice library, though the collection is focused exclusively upon bizarre erotica. Their host will "accidentally" lock them in for an hour, but not before providing wine and cheese.
OOC Note: Benedict is played by Cami. Feel free to play out a thread, handwave things, or ignore it entirely, but check with each other first! ❤ ]
[Please picture in your mind a narrow spiraling staircase. It's one of those sneaky little back routes that no doubt was made either for servants or to discourage invasion, and is unarguably the fastest way through whatever part of the Gallows this is and down toward the assorted workshop spaces and spirits only know what else in the danker lower levels of the tower.
Or it would be the fastest, were it not for the near collision that occurs as Wysteria comes flying down the stairwell. At the last moment, she throws herself to one side to avoid her momentum dashing both of them untold twists of stone steps. The lone victim of her effort is the large box in her hand. It makes contact with the passage wall. Its latch springs open, the contents of the case beginning to fly free--]
--Not today!
[Wysteria snaps both arms around it. She makes a triumphant noise of as the box slams shut. It's followed immediately by, as she deciphers the figure on the stairs as more than a blur, a significantly less pleased:]
[Val is much used to that tone of voice being used in his direction. An Orlesian you can sound more venomous than one rendered in the common language. Or perhaps more Orlesians hate him than non-Orlesians, so he's had cause to hear the Orlesian version more?
Unlikely.
All this is to say that Val knows the word is being directed at him. He still makes a show of looking over his shoulder (once he has stopped himself from falling backwards down the stair, by clapping a hand to the tightly tucked wall of the spiraled staircase), and then quite blankly back at the girl.]
There is no one else here, mademoiselle. Unless you see what I do not?
There is, allegedly, a war on. And there are, apparently, certain shortages in the city of Kirkwall. And yet, on the third day when Valentine Nicasus Maxence Mérovée Olivier de Foncé pays his respects to the dreary house in Hightown there is, by some outrageous miracle of conniving, tea and sugar both. And cream. And a perfectly respectable ale, which fares better in the heat than any white wine is likely to. Alas, the house indeed is still in a morbid state - scrubbed clean, certainly, but showing its weathered age so severely that surely any reasonable person would agree that even the Antivan wallpaper (presently in rolls in the foyer) would be something of an improvement for just about any room of the house.
Wysteria, following Val from room to room (each more washed out by the sun or smelling of whitewash powered lime) as they seek out a setting for their afternoon's work which Val might deem appropriate, is reading aloud from a letter as they go:
"'--and so it is with great dismay that I report there is very little liquid revenue in the region which is not currently being devoted in some way to the war effort already, be it in preparation for shortages given the Orlesian occupation and the anticipated loss of hands to the Exalted March, in the hiring of personal guards, or in the investment of certain properties to the East should the worst come to pass. However, should you and your partner be willing to forgo total ownership of any production from your most hypothetical workshop--' Which we obviously are not willing to do, so allow me to skip down to the next paragraph where my friend Brown resumes, saying 'If all else fails, I have included a leaflet which you may find interesting. Best of luck to you and your partner. Warmest Regards--' et cetera et cetera. The rest is irrelevant to you.
"Do you know who Marina Barbalini is, Monsiuer? The leaflet proclaims her to be some kind of singularly gifted Chantry Sister, having funded the entire operating costs of a Markham orphanage in a single evening by auctioning dinners with, quote, 'compelling individuals of note.'"
"The most is irrelevant to me. Is the wallpaper languishing in the front hall to be used in this room, also? I would think that a poor choice, should the work ever really come to pass."
As a rule, Val does not read letters, unless it is from a very small set of regular correspondents. He had announced this to the mademoiselle but had allowed her to continue to read aloud, as is the custom and fashion of one who refuses to read long and boring letters that are of little to no interest. He did not, it should be noted, refer to her as a secretary or some other title of administrative diminishment. Whatever it is he thinks of Wysteria Poppell, he at least has respect enough not to insult her so gravely.
Thoughtfully, he prods at the blank and aged wall of the room they are standing it. It is a fairly well-structured room: good bones, a large bank of windows that give it some natural light that is so desperately important to Val's ability to work and live and thrive and survive.
"Marina Barbalini is no one I have ever heard of," he says, at last responding to the question at hand. "But I am not surprised: she sounds insufferable. 'Compelling individuals'. They cannot have been so compelling, or else they were so compelling and notable that I read of the engagement and forgot her name and place in the affair entirely. Who would pay to dine with someone? This is their suggestion?"
[All hours are Work Hours if you love and are obsessed with your work ok, also this is not at all a not normal time to be conversing]
I am excellent with a crossbow. Of course I have the benefit of having received a great deal of training in a variety of pursuits and disciplines. A surprising pleasantry of my youth, and then a natural part of my schooling. Are you in some danger that you require this assistance?
[ A shame, about Hasmal. And Tantervale. And Starkhaven, soon. A thousand words could be dedicated to what a shame it is without coming close to covering it—but imagine that Jehan has tried, mentally, to devote an appropriately large amount of attention to what a horrible shame it is and only a very small amount of attention to the fact that it means that his family is safe for now, and Orlais can take a breath, and he can slip back out of the Chantry's hierarchy of charity and administrative support and into the Gallows without being terribly missed back in Val Royeaux.
That is, he was trying. Then he boarded the ferry, mentioned his friends, and heard the word wedding. He hasn't thought about Hasmal and Tantervale and Starkhaven since.
Now he is banging on Val's door with the handle of his cane in the wee early hours of the morning, saying, ] Valentine Nicasius Maxence Mérovée Olivier de Foncé. Wake up.
[ This will be embarrassing if his wife (WIFE?) is in their room (THEIR ROOM?), or if he has moved rooms altogether, or if he is out saving the world at the moment. Until any of those is confirmed: harder knocking. ]
[Soon, Val de Foncé will no longer be in the Gallows. Soon, this little room--his home for so long now!--will be empty, and Val will be sleeping on the ground in a tent, which he very much likes and enjoys. Yes, he will be sorry to leave behind his projects and his plans. Yes, he has had to bribe a small child to care for Veronique, and has paid said child extra in order to ensure that the care Veronique receives is loving. Yes, it is very sad about Hasmal, and Tantervale, and Starkhaven, but none of these places will be better served if Val goes to bed early and doesn't complete the writing that he is--
Oh, a knock at the door.
Of course he recognizes the voice at once, when he actually stops to listen to it. All books and papers are shoved aside, and the little writing desk is jarred with an audible screech of wood on stone as he leaps to his feet and goes bounding for the door, to wrench it open and behold--]
Jeannot!
[Val, married, looks much the same. Longer of hair--it is the fashion these days, is it not?--absently and endearingly scruffy in the way he gets when he is working very hard at something and neglects just enough personal hygiene to appear weathered and interesting and handsome (entirely by accident)--and so incandescently happy.
Without pause, he throws his arms around his friend--then leans back, a kiss on each cheek--and, this complete, then hugs him again.]
You are here! You are back! You are with me once more! You have only just missed Freddie--well, 'just', I suppose it has been some time. The months are blurred together, my friend! But yes, she has returned to her estate, there was a small situation--of course she has written to you about it, I hardly need to say anything, and so I will not--though she has left me quite alone and bereft, I have been talking to the walls, Jeannot, and they say so little back--
A thick packet which was studiously worked under his room's door and now has become a doorstop which one must struggle to overcome. The envelope has been sealed with a small stamp of faintly blue-tinged wax so as to avoid any unwanted eyes:
Monsieur,
I hope you have remained fit enough for the duration of the conflict along the Minanter and that this note finds you well. Furthermore, a few queries:
First, if you would be so kind as to write a summary of our work which may be presented to the Division Heads. As you are a respected scholar in the field of munitions and armaments, I expect that your expertise on the subject will carry some weight with those among their company (such as: Ambassador Rutyer) who might feel some obligation to be suspicious of the work. I have included a copy of an endorsement from Warden Ellis. I believe you will find his notes and diagrams soundly reasoned regardless of your dislike for him. I would further suggest that we send the device for more extensive field testing and propose that Mister James Holden is an excellent candidate. I have already approached him with the possibility and believe he will be quite thorough with his notes. Please let me know if there is anything else I might solicit in support of your paper.
Naturally, this will also require deciding on a name for the aforementioned. I have attached a list of possibilities for your consideration. Please let me know which you favor or if there is any alternative which strikes you as more appropriate.
Second. When shall I expect my dog?
Third. I have been informed by my solicitor of a small irregularity within certain documentation regarding the status of a certain legal partnership recently made final. I have included a copy of his notes and the documents in question, including the protestation of a particular magistrate on the subject of this partnership's dissolution given one of the party's status of...naturalization, let us say. Please forward this packet to your man in Val Royeaux for his consideration and review. My apologies for the delay in seeing this information to you. It has evidently been waiting for some weeks, but given the recent alteration to the war front the topic had somehow slipped my mind entirely.
Fourth. I cannot think of a fourth. However, I have included a small gift for Veronique.
Sincerely, W.P.
Included in the packet are two stale gingersnap cookies and a list of possible names for It:
Enchanting/Enchanted Long Gun Spell Thrower Arcannon Sparklock Gun Magifusil Stromrider or Vinsomer or some similar creature which expresses an electrical charge
[A clearly reused envelope is delivered nearly a week later to the Hightown. It has, at least, been resealed with red wax and the dragon seal that Val uses in all of his person correspondence, and the name of its original recipient (Val) has been scribbled out with Wysteria's name written above in its place.]
[And here in the margin of the letter, in scribbly Orlesian, Val has written: ask again/follow up with regards to s.c. for solc., time enough has passed. This might be a note to himself, or an instruction to Wysteria, who surely should be able to read Orlesian by now.]
Without envelope or seal, a note—if the word can be applied to a stack of pages of slightly crumpled mismatched quality, the papers having been carted about in various traveling desks and satchels before she ever had reason to write on them—is by necessity delivered by a third party:
Monsieur,
You will recall my passing interest in astronomy. On account of this I have been reading a little book on various women throughout history who have been associated with 'the Maiden'. It includes, of course, all the usual biographies such as Madrigal and Asha and a small collection of more localized folklorical figures and it is, as far as so-called histories go, a very charmingly done thing. I have been perfectly pleased with the arrangement of alleged fact and what I suppose one might call literary speculation which the author frequently has seen fit to indulge in. I suspect it is thrillingly biased and at least half very wrong in its justifications if perhaps not the facts and I believe you would resent it all very magnificently.
It occurs to me that it is irregular to recommend something on such a basis, but I suppose it is a little like soldiers in the training yard. It must be thoroughly regular to appreciate the dexterity of one's sparring partner, and reasonable to sometimes be pleased with being inconvenienced. Take for example this, where I am informing you that our expedition into the Deep Roads must be delayed on account of my health. You will, I'm certain, find this news very charming indeed if you might only view unplanned disturbances in a similarly generous light.
(You know of course that there is scholarship which suggests the pyramids on Par Vollen are reflective of the positioning of certain constellations. And also that it is rumored the Qunari conquered that land so easily due to their resemblance to iconography worshipped by the native population. I have found myself wondering whether it is possible that we, the metaphorical 'we' I mean, are not the first rifters to ever pass into Thedas. Maybe long ago it was easier for things and figures to come through the Veil and so the people that Par Vollen held in such respect but no longer seem to exist at all were merely travelers from some other place. It is, like the aforementioned book, a very poorly reasoned thought but appealingly romantic.)
In any case, should the anchor need to be done away with and I with it then assure your solicitor that all the papers are in order and that he may refer to my solicitor should there be any questions. I have not had the time to stipulate it in the paperwork, but it would please me if you were to allow Misters Stark and Ellis continued use of the house's ground floor, my cellar, and the attached garden. Also, Mister Dickerson gave to me a fine bone from a dragon early in the summer which I had delivered to a Nevarran craftsman by the name of Monstagg on the promise that he would see it made into the stock for the second iteration of our Vinsomer. Should it be returned and I am not here to collect it then know it was meant to be your Satinalia gift. There is a series of suggested alterations which I have noted in my things and you will forgive me for not recording them a second time here.
I will do my best to see that my copy of Bellinatus: Faces and Figures is delivered to you once I have finished with it. I have been taking notes in the margins with a pencil so that you may discuss it with me that way.
Mme C.
Oh and it is very rude to kiss any woman without her permission. Should I indeed evaporate when my arm is cut off, do not represent me poorly by carrying on with the habit.
Eventually might be one word. It does take time to respond to a letter, or a note. Heavily might be another another, as the reply arrives tucked in the front of a rather thick book--one of four, in fact, of varying thicknesses and quality (pristine to well-worn), and one entirely in Orlesian--and all about Par Vollen. The note is within the Orlesian text, which someone has marked up in purple ink, with underlines and double underlines and sometimes even triple underlines, and circled entire phrases, and exclamation marks and question marks and doodles and scribbled notes in the margins, and spilled food and wine on, and apparently once long ago dunked into a swamp, and generally and lovingly abused. On its frontispiece a very fine rendering of a rendering of the pyramids have been drawn in.
And the reply is sealed in red wax with the usual seal, and the paper is very fine even if one of the pages is very obviously the backside of a series of sums and weights and conversions that have all been marked out.]
Mᴀᴅᴇᴍᴏɪsᴇʟʟᴇ C,
I ᴡɪʟʟ ᴄᴏɴғᴇss I ᴀᴍ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴄᴏɴғᴜsᴇᴅ ᴀs ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴏɴᴇ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ. I ᴀᴍ ᴇᴀɢᴇʀʟʏ ᴀᴡᴀɪᴛɪɴɢ sᴛɪʟʟ Bᴇʟʟɪɴᴀᴛᴜs ᴀɴᴅ I ʜᴀᴅ ʜᴏᴘᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙʏ ᴅᴇʟᴀʏɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ʀᴇᴘʟʏ I ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ғɪɴᴅ ɪᴛ ᴅᴇʟɪᴠᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ. Aʟᴀs I ᴅɪᴅ ɴᴏᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ I ʜᴀᴅ ᴀ sᴍᴀʟʟ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋ ɪɴ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ sᴏ I ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ɪᴛ ʙᴇsᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ sɪғᴛ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴏʀᴅs ᴀɴᴅ ғᴏʀᴍ sᴏᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛs ᴛᴏ ʀᴇsᴘᴏɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇᴍ.
When Val arrives at the infirmary, Ellis melts out of sight, silently ceding his chair and excusing himself out of the room. There's no question of who shall occupy what space, because Ellis doesn't wait for there to be any question. It's only right, isn't it, that Val holds that place? Even knowing the full truth of the connection between Val and Wysteria, Ellis' instinct is still to step back.
But that doesn't mean he isn't waiting for Val outside the infirmary, whenever he emerges.
Ellis hasn't gone very far. He's couched against the wall beside the door, and when he straightens there's a stiffness to the motion, and to the way he rolls his neck on his shoulders, the little shake of his arms to dispel the ache of maintaining one position for so long.
"I need to speak with you."
No, no preamble or niceties. Small talk isn't Ellis' forte even under the most ideal of circumstances.
Val, exiting the infirmary, is distracted. This is understandable, surely. A man in his position ought to be hardly anything else. This also means that he walks straight past the man haunting the wall beside the door, and progresses about five to six steps before he realizes there is a voice, and that the voice is--
"You are addressing me?"
--well, that. Val looks around. They are largely alone in the corridor. A healer going about the business of wrapping bandages at a small table. Someone repairing a windowpane. This man who looks as if he has swallowed a rotting fish. Val de Foncé, and he gestures, inclusive, prompting.
The arrival of Ellis' promised research comes early in Harvestmere. No, the sheaf of papers does not greet Valentine de Foncé outside his door or in his mailbox. The sheaf of papers meets him inside of his own room, set upon the dresser. (Ellis was not always a Warden; he has acquired some skills in the course of his life that have nothing to do with his present work, and those skills might include the picking of locks.) Ellis has tied all his notes together neatly with twine, securing several months worth of work. The bottle of wine set atop the rest is more or less an afterthought, but it works to weigh everything down, and perhaps to call attention to the delivery, lest Val de Foncé mistake these notes for his own. A note secured beneath the knotted twine reads:
Monsieur de Foncé,
Here is all I have acquired thus far on the business we discussed. Please keep it out of sight. Should I fail to return within six months, pass it along to Mister Dickerson.
[A neatly-sealed reply is returned five days later. Its seal is the only neat thing about it--creased from being folded into fourths, with one end discolored a faint brown, it carries with it a distinctly chemical whiff.]
In the hope that he may see it in a timely fashion, the note and three carpet square samples are delivered directly on top of whichever of his papers are most pressing rather than left in his mail cubby. It's not sealed with wax, merely held closed with a complicated fold. Once opened, it reads:
De Foncé,
I've a research opportunity in Orzammar, and will be absent for two or perhaps three months. Please see to the attached swatches. I find all of them perfectly fine, and so whichever you select will serve. If you wish to take a room in my house while I'm away to oversee the installation, and to guarantee Dérenger doesn't become too lonely with no charge to mind relentlessly, and to be sure that the maid I've hired only steals a little (Her name is Bronagh and I have every confidence that she is perfectly respectable), then you're welcome to it. I recommend the western facing room with the papered walls. It's the best arranged.
Sincerely, Mme Cannon.
P.S. Say if there's anything you care to have brought back from Orzammar.
With surprising expedience, a reply is returned the very afternoon in which Wysteria's note was delivered. As the original was delivered in a more direct fashion than usual, one must assume that credit will be assigned to this method of delivery, and that one's reputation as a poor correspondent will remain sufficiently protected. The reply is written upon the back of the original, and folded with less care. The handwriting is still quite good.
A very normal letter to send one's wife of convenience, whose absence will not be noted in any particular way, or have any particular emotion associated with it.
Tight quarters are somewhat emblematic of the packet ships crossing the Waking Sea between Highever and Kirkwall. The cabins of the Windlass prove to be highly stereotypical in this regard; if Wysteria were to stand in the center of the space and extend her arms directly to other side, she might touch each wall (or whatever word walls are called on ships) easily with either hand. If she still has both hands, that is. The point being that, between two fully grown adult humans and a large mabari, on loan from a particular Warden Who Shall Not Be Named Lest the Mere Mention Sour a Particular Individual's Mood, there is hardly any room to move about at all and one would be forgiven for spending a great majority of their time anywhere else aboard when the weather allows for it.
Suffice to say, the weather is not feeling particularly permissive this evening. With the gale blowing hard and the ship heaving first this way and then that way, up and then down, corkscrewing in every sickly direction save the one which might earn them the most progress toward their destinations, all passengers have been strictly remanded to their cabins where they might persist in some tortured state out of the crew's way until the storm abates. And so, in one such macabre closet of horrors:
"Suppose we were to make our landing on the easternmost peninsula, far from Qunandar. Yes, I expect we would have a considerable distance of jungle to hack through, but there is something to be said for the security of wilderneack—"
Sitting cross legged in the cabin's single narrow bunk, Wysteria has to catch herself against the bulkhead to keep her and the book in her lap with its map of Par Vollen from spilling off the edge as the ship rises and abruptly falls again. She had taken off her simple prosthetic arm some hours ago, and presently sits(-ish) in all of her requisite respectable layers, plus a knit shawl in deference to the chill, save that the great bulk of her extraordinarily blonde hair has come down out of its plaiting to hang in sadly limp waves about her shoulders. Most happily, she is not at all green despite the relentless heaving of the ship, and, once steadied, Wysteria returns her attention smoothly enough to the book before her.
"My point is that if the continent is so strictly reined in as all that, that we ought to avoid all the obvious landings as a matter of course."
Val is laying on the floor, folded in half, so that he might fit into the cabin while the bed is occupied. He is positioned with his legs laid flat against the wall, crossed at the ankle, and his head is cushioned on one of the shabby yet serviceable pillows which was scrounged from the bed. He has been chewing on a chicken leg with all the iron-bellied determination of a man immune to seasickness. Now he leverages himself up onto one elbow, scooting off the wall, so as to peer at the map laid across Wysteria's lap. With the chicken bone, he points to a spot along the coastline.
"--There, along the Venefication, which in the end proved to be altogether too near to a settlement. Or else we were spied, but we did take care not to be so. I cannot imagine what more steps we might have taken. Perhaps the Qunari are possessed of some advanced technologies that allows them to see all ships that approach."
He takes another bite of the chicken, and chews, thoughtfully. Across the small space that separates them, Ruadh's great brick of a head is laid upon the bed's other pillow, and his eyes watch the movement of the chicken carefully.
"The peninsula has its merits. Of course there is the matter of the sea passage, to reach such a landing. We would need to find a craft more," and here Val thumps his elbow against the floorboards, twice, for emphasis, "suitable."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
via raven, unless he is in halamshiral, in which case it's delivered by hand C:
Thank you so much for joining in the giant snow battle. Your team was amazing.
As well as having a tab all organised at the tavern for when everyone is back from Orlais so you can all catch up and relax, please find enclosed an extra prize. It should keep you safe from any nasty chills, and give your attacks a little extra oomph. Everyone in your team is getting one, so you can always remember that you’re all a lot cooler than the rest of us. Sorry it took so long to get it to you, I needed to visit this place in Orlais to get it organised.
Stay awesome.
Best regards,
Ruby
( Enclosed there is a silver ring, with a yellow band running through it that looks like it could be crystal and catches the light.
The ring is cool to the touch, and provides a little boost to ice attacks, or adds an ice element to any weapon wielded while the ring is worn. The ring will also add some protection against cold attacks. It isn’t a super duper powerful ring, but it will give a bit of an edge in a fight, or just make any future snowballs hella hardcore. Damn, son. )
backdated to early Cloudreach
I'm making an artifact that going to go in the Gallows to magically fortify it against the elements and time. How would you incorporate such an artifact, and what would it be?
no subject
Of course, mademoiselle. It would be my honor to advise on the subject. Before we begin, may I compliment you upon your wisdom in selection me for such advisement? You have truly designated the best in the Inquisition. There is no other who will provide such opinions and deep sagacity to this topic.
Now. First I must ask: are there any restrictions magically that will need to be considered, in the design of this object? I will confess that my knowledge of magical artifacts is but the knowledge of a student, a collector, and not a person of such gifts myself. Does a hard right angle impede the flow of the magic? Please, speak.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
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1/2
2/2
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a gift fit for a prince;
Why? Who? How? ]
no subject
(no subject)
oh my god
no subject
Call me on the crystals if you've any questions. Anders.]
hand delivered by a messenger;
one (1) original draft, with notes and rewritings and the odd scored out line, of the same piece of poetry that Val had once recited to the Inquisition. It has been signed neatly 𝒢wenaëlle 𝒱auquelin, nom de guerre ℐlde 𝒮auvageon in the lower right corner, and she has had it pressed behind glass and framed for him, then wrapped in velvet and tied with a ribbon.
Just to really nail it home. With it, a short message: )
𝒱.𝒹.ℱ
You're welcome.
𝒢𝒱
via raven;
'Twas a favour for a favour, I believe.
Morrigan
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[ She's not particularly enthusiastic about it. ]
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Mademoiselle, please. Request, without trepidation. What is it that you would ask? If it is within my power to grant, I shall grant it.
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crystals;
[ that it's usually val telling everyone that is — not the point. ]
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[✨✨✨✨]
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crystal.
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a very mysterious invitation
Val doesn't have to actually accept the invitation. Not intentionally. Should he ignore or otherwise attempt to circumvent its summons, a chain of coincidences (terrible, mysterious, you get it by now) and well-timed accidents will conspire to get him there roughly on time.
The invitation is beautifully calligraphed, and requests that Val's inestimable expertise be lent to reviewing the accuracy of translated diary pages, written by a Tevene scholar known for his studies of dragons. This is true: The diary pages are definitely about dragons. They are also definitely lewd fanfiction about dragon furries.
It’s quite a nice library, though the collection is focused exclusively upon bizarre erotica. Their host will "accidentally" lock them in for an hour, but not before providing wine and cheese.
OOC Note: Benedict is played by Cami. Feel free to play out a thread, handwave things, or ignore it entirely, but check with each other first! ❤ ]
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Or it would be the fastest, were it not for the near collision that occurs as Wysteria comes flying down the stairwell. At the last moment, she throws herself to one side to avoid her momentum dashing both of them untold twists of stone steps. The lone victim of her effort is the large box in her hand. It makes contact with the passage wall. Its latch springs open, the contents of the case beginning to fly free--]
--Not today!
[Wysteria snaps both arms around it. She makes a triumphant noise of as the box slams shut. It's followed immediately by, as she deciphers the figure on the stairs as more than a blur, a significantly less pleased:]
You.
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Unlikely.
All this is to say that Val knows the word is being directed at him. He still makes a show of looking over his shoulder (once he has stopped himself from falling backwards down the stair, by clapping a hand to the tightly tucked wall of the spiraled staircase), and then quite blankly back at the girl.]
There is no one else here, mademoiselle. Unless you see what I do not?
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Wysteria, following Val from room to room (each more washed out by the sun or smelling of whitewash powered lime) as they seek out a setting for their afternoon's work which Val might deem appropriate, is reading aloud from a letter as they go:
"'--and so it is with great dismay that I report there is very little liquid revenue in the region which is not currently being devoted in some way to the war effort already, be it in preparation for shortages given the Orlesian occupation and the anticipated loss of hands to the Exalted March, in the hiring of personal guards, or in the investment of certain properties to the East should the worst come to pass. However, should you and your partner be willing to forgo total ownership of any production from your most hypothetical workshop--' Which we obviously are not willing to do, so allow me to skip down to the next paragraph where my friend Brown resumes, saying 'If all else fails, I have included a leaflet which you may find interesting. Best of luck to you and your partner. Warmest Regards--' et cetera et cetera. The rest is irrelevant to you.
"Do you know who Marina Barbalini is, Monsiuer? The leaflet proclaims her to be some kind of singularly gifted Chantry Sister, having funded the entire operating costs of a Markham orphanage in a single evening by auctioning dinners with, quote, 'compelling individuals of note.'"
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As a rule, Val does not read letters, unless it is from a very small set of regular correspondents. He had announced this to the mademoiselle but had allowed her to continue to read aloud, as is the custom and fashion of one who refuses to read long and boring letters that are of little to no interest. He did not, it should be noted, refer to her as a secretary or some other title of administrative diminishment. Whatever it is he thinks of Wysteria Poppell, he at least has respect enough not to insult her so gravely.
Thoughtfully, he prods at the blank and aged wall of the room they are standing it. It is a fairly well-structured room: good bones, a large bank of windows that give it some natural light that is so desperately important to Val's ability to work and live and thrive and survive.
"Marina Barbalini is no one I have ever heard of," he says, at last responding to the question at hand. "But I am not surprised: she sounds insufferable. 'Compelling individuals'. They cannot have been so compelling, or else they were so compelling and notable that I read of the engagement and forgot her name and place in the affair entirely. Who would pay to dine with someone? This is their suggestion?"
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crystal.
How good are you with crossbows?
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I am excellent with a crossbow. Of course I have the benefit of having received a great deal of training in a variety of pursuits and disciplines. A surprising pleasantry of my youth, and then a natural part of my schooling. Are you in some danger that you require this assistance?
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two people is "so many people", i'm sorry is fitz me
i did think fondly of you while writing it yes
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crystal.
[ Good afternoon. ]
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[Good afternoon.]
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crystal;
There is a public house at the edge of Hightown. The Tamed Lion. They have a prodigious collection of Orlesian wine.
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cw: suicide
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ACTION. ACTION IN PERSON.
That is, he was trying. Then he boarded the ferry, mentioned his friends, and heard the word wedding. He hasn't thought about Hasmal and Tantervale and Starkhaven since.
Now he is banging on Val's door with the handle of his cane in the wee early hours of the morning, saying, ] Valentine Nicasius Maxence Mérovée Olivier de Foncé. Wake up.
[ This will be embarrassing if his wife (WIFE?) is in their room (THEIR ROOM?), or if he has moved rooms altogether, or if he is out saving the world at the moment. Until any of those is confirmed: harder knocking. ]
!!
Oh, a knock at the door.
Of course he recognizes the voice at once, when he actually stops to listen to it. All books and papers are shoved aside, and the little writing desk is jarred with an audible screech of wood on stone as he leaps to his feet and goes bounding for the door, to wrench it open and behold--]
Jeannot!
[Val, married, looks much the same. Longer of hair--it is the fashion these days, is it not?--absently and endearingly scruffy in the way he gets when he is working very hard at something and neglects just enough personal hygiene to appear weathered and interesting and handsome (entirely by accident)--and so incandescently happy.
Without pause, he throws his arms around his friend--then leans back, a kiss on each cheek--and, this complete, then hugs him again.]
You are here! You are back! You are with me once more! You have only just missed Freddie--well, 'just', I suppose it has been some time. The months are blurred together, my friend! But yes, she has returned to her estate, there was a small situation--of course she has written to you about it, I hardly need to say anything, and so I will not--though she has left me quite alone and bereft, I have been talking to the walls, Jeannot, and they say so little back--
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post-mod plot;
Included in the packet are two stale gingersnap cookies and a list of possible names for It:
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[And here in the margin of the letter, in scribbly Orlesian, Val has written: ask again/follow up with regards to s.c. for solc., time enough has passed. This might be a note to himself, or an instruction to Wysteria, who surely should be able to read Orlesian by now.]
[And then there is a large ink blot that takes up the rest of that page. Upon a fresh page--]
[Enclosed is the same piece of parchment with the same list of possible names, which Val has helpfully annotated and spilled some dark liquid upon.]
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a note;
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Eventually might be one word. It does take time to respond to a letter, or a note. Heavily might be another another, as the reply arrives tucked in the front of a rather thick book--one of four, in fact, of varying thicknesses and quality (pristine to well-worn), and one entirely in Orlesian--and all about Par Vollen. The note is within the Orlesian text, which someone has marked up in purple ink, with underlines and double underlines and sometimes even triple underlines, and circled entire phrases, and exclamation marks and question marks and doodles and scribbled notes in the margins, and spilled food and wine on, and apparently once long ago dunked into a swamp, and generally and lovingly abused. On its frontispiece a very fine rendering of a rendering of the pyramids have been drawn in.
And the reply is sealed in red wax with the usual seal, and the paper is very fine even if one of the pages is very obviously the backside of a series of sums and weights and conversions that have all been marked out.]
[Perhaps a reply to the postscript has been inserted within another page of the Toussaint? One must read to find out.]
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an ambush.
But that doesn't mean he isn't waiting for Val outside the infirmary, whenever he emerges.
Ellis hasn't gone very far. He's couched against the wall beside the door, and when he straightens there's a stiffness to the motion, and to the way he rolls his neck on his shoulders, the little shake of his arms to dispel the ache of maintaining one position for so long.
"I need to speak with you."
No, no preamble or niceties. Small talk isn't Ellis' forte even under the most ideal of circumstances.
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"You are addressing me?"
--well, that. Val looks around. They are largely alone in the corridor. A healer going about the business of wrapping bandages at a small table. Someone repairing a windowpane. This man who looks as if he has swallowed a rotting fish. Val de Foncé, and he gestures, inclusive, prompting.
"We are now speaking. And?"
no escape
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https://i.ibb.co/PGLn1Gd/image.jpg
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special delivery.
a note / it's me again
!!!!!
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a note;
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A very normal letter to send one's wife of convenience, whose absence will not be noted in any particular way, or have any particular emotion associated with it.
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a boat;
Suffice to say, the weather is not feeling particularly permissive this evening. With the gale blowing hard and the ship heaving first this way and then that way, up and then down, corkscrewing in every sickly direction save the one which might earn them the most progress toward their destinations, all passengers have been strictly remanded to their cabins where they might persist in some tortured state out of the crew's way until the storm abates. And so, in one such macabre closet of horrors:
"Suppose we were to make our landing on the easternmost peninsula, far from Qunandar. Yes, I expect we would have a considerable distance of jungle to hack through, but there is something to be said for the security of wilderneack—"
Sitting cross legged in the cabin's single narrow bunk, Wysteria has to catch herself against the bulkhead to keep her and the book in her lap with its map of Par Vollen from spilling off the edge as the ship rises and abruptly falls again. She had taken off her simple prosthetic arm some hours ago, and presently sits(-ish) in all of her requisite respectable layers, plus a knit shawl in deference to the chill, save that the great bulk of her extraordinarily blonde hair has come down out of its plaiting to hang in sadly limp waves about her shoulders. Most happily, she is not at all green despite the relentless heaving of the ship, and, once steadied, Wysteria returns her attention smoothly enough to the book before her.
"My point is that if the continent is so strictly reined in as all that, that we ought to avoid all the obvious landings as a matter of course."
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Val is laying on the floor, folded in half, so that he might fit into the cabin while the bed is occupied. He is positioned with his legs laid flat against the wall, crossed at the ankle, and his head is cushioned on one of the shabby yet serviceable pillows which was scrounged from the bed. He has been chewing on a chicken leg with all the iron-bellied determination of a man immune to seasickness. Now he leverages himself up onto one elbow, scooting off the wall, so as to peer at the map laid across Wysteria's lap. With the chicken bone, he points to a spot along the coastline.
"--There, along the Venefication, which in the end proved to be altogether too near to a settlement. Or else we were spied, but we did take care not to be so. I cannot imagine what more steps we might have taken. Perhaps the Qunari are possessed of some advanced technologies that allows them to see all ships that approach."
He takes another bite of the chicken, and chews, thoughtfully. Across the small space that separates them, Ruadh's great brick of a head is laid upon the bed's other pillow, and his eyes watch the movement of the chicken carefully.
"The peninsula has its merits. Of course there is the matter of the sea passage, to reach such a landing. We would need to find a craft more," and here Val thumps his elbow against the floorboards, twice, for emphasis, "suitable."
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