[The reply comes by messenger, and quite a bit later than perhaps expected. It is nearly the end of the fortnight when it is presented to Wysteria. The envelope is the same; the seal is the same. This time Val has pressed his dragon into the wax and drawn a jagged speech bubble that bears the word Sᴀʟᴜᴛ! Very whimsical.
Less whimsical is the state of the parchment upon which the letter has been written. The first page is written upon the back of a diagram of a screw-threaded bolt. The second page is sooty. The third bears a not insignificant winestain. But the handwriting is, as ever, very good and clear, and there is no blotting of the ink (except in one place where the winestain must not have fully dried and caused the ink to blot).]
[The reply is, as ever, quite prompt. It arrives in a fresh envelope, the addition of the speech bubble evidently reason to finally retire the much abused packet.
The contents are predictably neat save for the fact that old icing from a slice of stale lemon loaf has caused a number of the pages to stick together. Once they have been successfully unfused and the crumbs shaken from the envelope—]
Dear M. V de F.,
I must report that my calendar is not at all free. It is in fact the very opposite of the thing. Are you aware of how many Rifters have arrived at the Gallows as of late? And how many of these require fine handling in order to interview and collect information on? (Have I discussed that project with you? I don't believe I have; I am taking account of the various commonalities which persist between Rifters and their alleged "home worlds", for lack of a better term. Should curiosity on the subject ever possess you, you need only say so and I will happily prepare a great primer on the material in question.) Do you realize how much paperwork there is to sort for Project Felandaris now that Mister Stark is the Division Head and the project has no one to spearhead it? To say nothing of the work being done at the Hightown House (I have had no complaints about your man Raul, though the other day I discovered his assistant—a fine young lady by the name of Ansa—in the garden seeming quite disturbed by one thing or another), or this trouble to do with paperwork (which I have forwarded to my solicitor. I'm afraid he has a poor grasp on Orlesian, and so it is likely to take some time for him to work through all of the material provided).
However, in the interest of both introductions to Déranger and for the exploration of the passage under Kirkwall, I will endeavor to find the time. Fifteen days hence should be perfectly acceptable with respect to the expedition. I will leave all the details to you. Please notify me if there is any particular thing I should have along in order to be properly prepared, or if there is anyone you should wish to include in our party. I have only spent a little time in the Deep Roads, though I believe I have heard it is customary to have a Warden to hand whenever possible. Given that we have four among our very company, I suspect fetching one along with us shouldn't prove overly difficult. Given that they may be tasked with the taking of an occasional note, I suspect you will rule out one of the available possibilities but do let me know if you have similarly poor opinions of any of the others.
(Perhaps any untidiness of Warden Ellis' margins are to do with how remarkably prolific he is. He frequently shares notes with me. And I find there is something very pleasant in the regular receipt of mail. The intent behind an abundance of writing is prone to outweighing the most elegantly composed missive when one is forced to wait weeks for the latter.)
While we are on the subject of friends (Veronique included, and so too unfortunately Genet but only by merit of him being fundamentally opposite in classification): Am I correct in saying that yours has returned from Orlais? Brother Mercier, I mean. I have no doubt that he doesn't remember me whatsoever from when he was in Kirkwall last, but please do convey my happy salutations to him. I'm pleased to know that you have at least one excellent companion here in the Gallows who may be trusted to occasionally extract you from that dungeon which you have called a workshop.
Are you quite certain you didn't eat Veronique's present yourself? Perhaps you were distracted by the subject of the Despised Architectural Scholar and consumed it in a rage. Regardless, I have included an old heel of iced lemon loaf. Please see that she receives it.
I believe that is everything. So let us convene tomorrow evening at the usual hour at the Shank & Shackle. You will recall that it is that little cafe in the suspicious back courtyard and that they have a rather good selection of port wines. You may introduce me to Déranger then. I have dated this letter so you will know which evening I am referencing; if you have missed the day entirely, I will expect some token in consolation and for you to organize the rendezvous.
[There is no letter in reply. And it would be very Val de Foncé, to miss the evening by not attending to his correspondence for days on end.
In fact it may very much seem as if he is going to do just that, as the usual hour at the Shank & Shackle comes, and begins to pass--and is then interrupted by a great shaggy fawn-colored mop of a briard which marches to the table and drops her head in Wysteria's lap, or perhaps upon her knee, whatever is easiest to get to.
Val is behind her, reading as he walks. He pushes his chair out from the table with his foot, without looking, and sits, without looking, and flips the letter over as he reaches the end of the first page and begins on the second. His is a very summery look, a shirt of undyed linen and a gray silk vest, worn unbuttoned, and loose trousers made of a pale green silk. His fingers, unfortunately, are soot-stained, and three have been bandaged, which rather makes it seem that he did not intentionally dress up. He is wearing his hair as long as it has been to date.
The dog looks up at Wysteria through the fringe of fur that falls into her button-black eyes. Through her fur, one can see that she is wearing a very fine collar. Chunky gemstones glimmer like stars fallen among river reeds.
Val keeps reading. Absently, he reaches for the carafe of wine to pour himself one, without looking away from the letter.]
[To be perfectly honest, she is expecting to be stood up.
It is not, per say, her plan exactly. But it is not exactly not her plan either. Surely if she were so particular about the date and time, Wysteria might notify him by crystal rather than in writing. Or she might have even gone to his workshop and so fetched him directly. But no. She has instead been perfectly content to occupy this little table, to treat herself to a little cherry port and a baked pear, and to catch up on other non-de Foncé related correspondence while ruminating over what exactly she will request from the man in question as recompense for failing to meet her.
(She cannot ask for a book. He is very free with those and it would be no imposition whatsoever. Maybe she will require some kind of favor. Or his attendance at some inconvenient function. Or—)
There is a dog's head in her lap.
As far as dog's heads go, it seems to be a rather heavy one and all covered in coarse brown fur. If she were the sort of person who found the eccentricies of animals very charming, undoubtedly this one's confidence would inspire some admiration. As it is, Wysteria regards the dog for a blank beat, carefully sets her spoon aside, and says in the tone of a person who has never had much cause to pet animals or hold babies or coddle many creatures of lesser than adult human intelligence:]
Déranger, I presume.
[And here too of course is the man. Wysteria turns to him, fully prepared to launch directly into conversation, and is dismayed to find his attention so definitively occupied elsewhere. She opens her mouth—pauses—and then promptly resumes her examination of the mop draped across the thigh of her yellow skirts. Hello to you too, Valentine.]
My. How well dressed you are. You must be a very accomplished mercenary to have made it unscathed through Lowtown.
[Déranger tail thumps at the floor, first in recognition of her name, and second at the praise. Val picks up the glass that he has poured for himself and takes a mouthful as he flips the letter back to its front once more to reread what has already been read.
He answers on behalf of Déranger:]
She enjoys a challenge.
[The paper rustles as he flips it over yet again, his eyes scanning quickly.]
Remind me, mademoiselle, what is your position on music? Are you adverse to its performance or do you find enjoyment?
[Déranger turns her gaze to Val at the sound of his voice. Her tail thumps again at the floor, somewhat more intently, but she does not raise her head from Wysteria's leg just yet.]
[For her instant loyalty to Wysteria's knee, Déranger is rewarded with a tentative pat, pat on the top of her head. That touch turns into something more exploratory a moment after as Wysteria makes an attempt to gently turn aside various locks of caramel colored hair to unearth the dog's dark button eyes. Ah yes, there you are.]
Music? So long as I'm to listen to it and not at all responsible for its playing, I suppose it's quite enjoyable. She doesn't look very intimidating, de Foncé. Though, [to the dog:] if you're indeed after a challenge, to post as unthreatening is certainly one way to accomplish that.
[Withdrawing her hand from between the animal's ears, Wysteria finally turns her face back to Val. Or to the papers, rustling as they are.]
Ça va. [Unperturbed by this assessment, Val at last sets down the letter to look at both Wysteria and Déranger. For Déranger he has a beaming smile.] You have the right of it. What better way for a guard to be truly effective than to be dismissed as a nothing! With this, we shall trick successfully any thief or assassin or kidnapper or bandit that would see fit to enter the property will be falsely secure in their ability to manage the situation. And then: Déranger!
[Déranger licks Wysteria's wrist companionably. Val, meanwhile, plucks up the letter again and flourishes it at Wysteria, a punctuation to the dog's name.]
You may see for yourself. A friend, Madame Emone Perrault d'Châtillon-Blois, is giving a concert, and she has sent a personal invitation. This is why I asked your opinion on music. Perrault is a masterful composer besides, and will be debuting a new piece that she has written, as well as performing some of her more famous works. It will be, I am sure, stunning.
[The letter is unhelpfully entirely written in Orlesian, in a lady's fine hand. The shape of each letter has a dreamy wistfulness to it, except in certain sections, when it seems a harder and harsher tone has been taken. Val takes another sip of wine and gestures expansively with the glass.]
Moreover it will be great fun. Perrault's husband is a famous bore, yes--you will not be able to stand him--but he owns four of five rather decent wineries--nothing to compare to those of my dear Baroness! Oh, no, hm--is it now six? I believe he has acquired a sixth winery. In any case, he is aware of his reputation and so to make up for it, suffuses any event he attends with enough wine to float the entire Orlesian fleet. It is an excellent quality in a man. What are you reading?
[And he leans forward quite suddenly to reach for one of Wysteria's letters. Déranger again licks her wrist.]
Edited (trying this thing called proofreading) 2021-09-23 18:20 (UTC)
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no subject
Less whimsical is the state of the parchment upon which the letter has been written. The first page is written upon the back of a diagram of a screw-threaded bolt. The second page is sooty. The third bears a not insignificant winestain. But the handwriting is, as ever, very good and clear, and there is no blotting of the ink (except in one place where the winestain must not have fully dried and caused the ink to blot).]
[And there the letter ends.
But only for a little while. There are more pages behind to be read, and so onward--]
no subject
The contents are predictably neat save for the fact that old icing from a slice of stale lemon loaf has caused a number of the pages to stick together. Once they have been successfully unfused and the crumbs shaken from the envelope—]
no subject
In fact it may very much seem as if he is going to do just that, as the usual hour at the Shank & Shackle comes, and begins to pass--and is then interrupted by a great shaggy fawn-colored mop of a briard which marches to the table and drops her head in Wysteria's lap, or perhaps upon her knee, whatever is easiest to get to.
Val is behind her, reading as he walks. He pushes his chair out from the table with his foot, without looking, and sits, without looking, and flips the letter over as he reaches the end of the first page and begins on the second. His is a very summery look, a shirt of undyed linen and a gray silk vest, worn unbuttoned, and loose trousers made of a pale green silk. His fingers, unfortunately, are soot-stained, and three have been bandaged, which rather makes it seem that he did not intentionally dress up. He is wearing his hair as long as it has been to date.
The dog looks up at Wysteria through the fringe of fur that falls into her button-black eyes. Through her fur, one can see that she is wearing a very fine collar. Chunky gemstones glimmer like stars fallen among river reeds.
Val keeps reading. Absently, he reaches for the carafe of wine to pour himself one, without looking away from the letter.]
no subject
It is not, per say, her plan exactly. But it is not exactly not her plan either. Surely if she were so particular about the date and time, Wysteria might notify him by crystal rather than in writing. Or she might have even gone to his workshop and so fetched him directly. But no. She has instead been perfectly content to occupy this little table, to treat herself to a little cherry port and a baked pear, and to catch up on other non-de Foncé related correspondence while ruminating over what exactly she will request from the man in question as recompense for failing to meet her.
(She cannot ask for a book. He is very free with those and it would be no imposition whatsoever. Maybe she will require some kind of favor. Or his attendance at some inconvenient function. Or—)
There is a dog's head in her lap.
As far as dog's heads go, it seems to be a rather heavy one and all covered in coarse brown fur. If she were the sort of person who found the eccentricies of animals very charming, undoubtedly this one's confidence would inspire some admiration. As it is, Wysteria regards the dog for a blank beat, carefully sets her spoon aside, and says in the tone of a person who has never had much cause to pet animals or hold babies or coddle many creatures of lesser than adult human intelligence:]
Déranger, I presume.
[And here too of course is the man. Wysteria turns to him, fully prepared to launch directly into conversation, and is dismayed to find his attention so definitively occupied elsewhere. She opens her mouth—pauses—and then promptly resumes her examination of the mop draped across the thigh of her yellow skirts. Hello to you too, Valentine.]
My. How well dressed you are. You must be a very accomplished mercenary to have made it unscathed through Lowtown.
no subject
He answers on behalf of Déranger:]
She enjoys a challenge.
[The paper rustles as he flips it over yet again, his eyes scanning quickly.]
Remind me, mademoiselle, what is your position on music? Are you adverse to its performance or do you find enjoyment?
[Déranger turns her gaze to Val at the sound of his voice. Her tail thumps again at the floor, somewhat more intently, but she does not raise her head from Wysteria's leg just yet.]
no subject
Music? So long as I'm to listen to it and not at all responsible for its playing, I suppose it's quite enjoyable. She doesn't look very intimidating, de Foncé. Though, [to the dog:] if you're indeed after a challenge, to post as unthreatening is certainly one way to accomplish that.
[Withdrawing her hand from between the animal's ears, Wysteria finally turns her face back to Val. Or to the papers, rustling as they are.]
What's that you're reading?
no subject
[Déranger licks Wysteria's wrist companionably. Val, meanwhile, plucks up the letter again and flourishes it at Wysteria, a punctuation to the dog's name.]
You may see for yourself. A friend, Madame Emone Perrault d'Châtillon-Blois, is giving a concert, and she has sent a personal invitation. This is why I asked your opinion on music. Perrault is a masterful composer besides, and will be debuting a new piece that she has written, as well as performing some of her more famous works. It will be, I am sure, stunning.
[The letter is unhelpfully entirely written in Orlesian, in a lady's fine hand. The shape of each letter has a dreamy wistfulness to it, except in certain sections, when it seems a harder and harsher tone has been taken. Val takes another sip of wine and gestures expansively with the glass.]
Moreover it will be great fun. Perrault's husband is a famous bore, yes--you will not be able to stand him--but he owns four of five rather decent wineries--nothing to compare to those of my dear Baroness! Oh, no, hm--is it now six? I believe he has acquired a sixth winery. In any case, he is aware of his reputation and so to make up for it, suffuses any event he attends with enough wine to float the entire Orlesian fleet. It is an excellent quality in a man. What are you reading?
[And he leans forward quite suddenly to reach for one of Wysteria's letters. Déranger again licks her wrist.]