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.
[The reply is slow in coming, and it arrives in a bog standard envelope typical of reports from the Gallows. Clearly someone was short their own and saw fit to requisition one. It is indeed accompanied by the aforementioned copy of Bellinatus:, which is thoroughly marked in pencil. The notes are densest at the front of the book, taking of a prodigious amount of margin space and in some sections have even been written cross-wise across the face of the text itself. As the volume goes on, the note taker becomes more restrained by degrees until the final chapter is annotated largely only with various underlines and circles or the occasional remark of 'Ridiculous!' over some absurd conclusion drawn by the essay's closing paragraphs.
On crisp, clean paper:]
Monsieur,
My apologies if I was anything short of clear in my previous note. I was unwell at the time of writing it and cannot recall whether I described to you the circumstances. Forgive me if any part of this is repeated.
I believe the anchor in my hand is doing some ill affect to me. The matter has been debated and it has been decided that I will soon do away with it. Being a gentleman of adventure, I'm certain that you are at least theoretically familiar with the eradication of a diseased limb and so will not go on at length with respect to the details.
We are
[Here, hardly a quarter of the way down the page, there is an abrupt end to the text of the letter. It continues on a second page, albeit in an altogether different hand.]
I am enjoying Toussant slowly. Your handwriting is very bad in places. Remind me of where (Sorry.)
I am having this written down for me. Now on the subjekt of the anchor - I believe there was a case with the Inquisition of an elven woman who was poisoned by hers. She was however native I think and so while there is obvious need to remove the artifact presently it seems that there is no record of an rifter doing so.
We have been debating what the effects will be.
You rekal that we have diskussed the importance of the vin somer being reliant on only concepts which may be replikated easily here given the instability of rifters. I suppose it was silly of me not to have prepared my papers more thurohly but what can be done. ?
Don't call me filosofical. It is very insulting. Please relish in hating this book. I will write you a better letter later.
[Her '-W' at the bottom is written in her own handwriting. A brief note has been written on the back of the page. It says,]
Dear Sir,
Sorry for the intrusion. If it wasn't made clear, your wife is very ill. But I have heard that that amputation is likely to be a great suksess and that there are one or two good mage healers to hand. Your wife would like you to know that she will be fit for the expedition shortly but that Warden Adrasteia and Miss Elly would be praktical substitutes if nessuhsarry.
[The very afternoon that the rather pathetic letter is received, Val sweeps into the office of his solicitor and throws said letter onto the man's desk and demands, TO WHOM, in swift and loud and sharp Orlesian, to WHOM do I direct my complaint, monsieur!
(Wysteria will never know, but: Val does sometimes read his correspondence promptly. It is useful to cultivate a reputation that one does not read one's correspondence promptly, so that there is a convenient excuse available, but chiefly so that there are no expectations assigned. It does not suit a scholar and a soul of adventure to be confined by the bonds of regular correspondence and timely replies.)
Why such passion, Monsieur de Foncé? But what a stupid question. Val is full of passion. That this particular passion happens to be connected to an amputated wife--now the question becomes stupid to the point of ridiculous. What man would not care that his wife is in a paltry bed somewhere having her limbs sawn off by rough and ill-educated doctors and peasant healers--who are no doubt Free Marches or Fereldens educated in the butchery of what locally passes for veterinary arts! This would turn the stomach of even the most stoic of men.
This is how it comes to be that--three days after the letter is received--an Orlesian doctor called Chapdelaine appears to harangue anyone involved in the tending and care of Madame de Foncé (as he styles Wysteria), wherever she might be found to be in those days. Chapdelaine is quieter than one might expect a colleague of Val de Foncé to be (if indeed he is a colleague--but he must be--or at the very least financed by Val). He makes his opinions known by leveling his direct and dark stare upon any who would oppose him.
With him, Chapdelaine bears a letter, composed on finer and cleaner stock than usual and marked with the seal of Val's solicitor, as if perhaps it was composed in that very office on a whim.]
[And so, a series of days later, in a smart little envelope and on a a sheet of paper so remarkably thin that the author has had a little trouble avoiding blotting:]
M,
You will be pleased to hear that at the behest of your colleague (who must have an exceeding light touch, as he has lent me this piece of paper against his better judgement and it's quite difficult to write on; excuse the excess of ink if you please) and with the Provost's encouragement regarding the sensitivity of the question to hand (that is, whether anyone outside Riftwatch would have any expertise on the subject of anchors), that I have been successfully relocated to the Gallows infirmary. Should your work at any point allow you to come rebuke me directly, then you may certainly do so.
I am also much improved, hence why I am penning this note. I will tell you all the other points on which we disagree later. Do not allow Ser Derangér to eat my things. I will be very cross.
If you do come to berate me, see that you bring some interesting articles with you. I am to have the arm lopped off any day now.
W.
[Accompanying the note is, presumably, a far more economical and facts driven companion piece from Chapdelaine detailing the transfer and various particulars of the young lady's condition with more reliability (and less spelling errors) than the previously provided assessment. Yes, the lady has expressed one or two anxieties about the artifact acting as a tether given her unique situation. Even so, yes, the arm will have to come away. He might have walked the note over himself of course, but—
And so on. More importantly, the runner who delivers both has a verbal message: 'Miss Poppell—um, wife I mean. She was very insistent that you come to see her, Serrah. Er, Monsieur?']
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no subject
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.]
no subject
On crisp, clean paper:]
[Here, hardly a quarter of the way down the page, there is an abrupt end to the text of the letter. It continues on a second page, albeit in an altogether different hand.]
[Her '-W' at the bottom is written in her own handwriting. A brief note has been written on the back of the page. It says,]
no subject
(Wysteria will never know, but: Val does sometimes read his correspondence promptly. It is useful to cultivate a reputation that one does not read one's correspondence promptly, so that there is a convenient excuse available, but chiefly so that there are no expectations assigned. It does not suit a scholar and a soul of adventure to be confined by the bonds of regular correspondence and timely replies.)
Why such passion, Monsieur de Foncé? But what a stupid question. Val is full of passion. That this particular passion happens to be connected to an amputated wife--now the question becomes stupid to the point of ridiculous. What man would not care that his wife is in a paltry bed somewhere having her limbs sawn off by rough and ill-educated doctors and peasant healers--who are no doubt Free Marches or Fereldens educated in the butchery of what locally passes for veterinary arts! This would turn the stomach of even the most stoic of men.
This is how it comes to be that--three days after the letter is received--an Orlesian doctor called Chapdelaine appears to harangue anyone involved in the tending and care of Madame de Foncé (as he styles Wysteria), wherever she might be found to be in those days. Chapdelaine is quieter than one might expect a colleague of Val de Foncé to be (if indeed he is a colleague--but he must be--or at the very least financed by Val). He makes his opinions known by leveling his direct and dark stare upon any who would oppose him.
With him, Chapdelaine bears a letter, composed on finer and cleaner stock than usual and marked with the seal of Val's solicitor, as if perhaps it was composed in that very office on a whim.]
no subject
[Accompanying the note is, presumably, a far more economical and facts driven companion piece from Chapdelaine detailing the transfer and various particulars of the young lady's condition with more reliability (and less spelling errors) than the previously provided assessment. Yes, the lady has expressed one or two anxieties about the artifact acting as a tether given her unique situation. Even so, yes, the arm will have to come away. He might have walked the note over himself of course, but—
And so on. More importantly, the runner who delivers both has a verbal message: 'Miss Poppell—um, wife I mean. She was very insistent that you come to see her, Serrah. Er, Monsieur?']