should they whisper false of you, never trouble to deny;

[trouvaille]

FORM: Sending crystal.
SENDER: Gwenaëlle Vauquelin.
RECIPIENT: All u scrubs.
WHAT: An announcement.
WHEN: During Cloudreach's sickness event.
WHERE: Skyhold.
NOTES: Refer to this.

( the sensible thing to do - indeed, what katell has urged, folding her exasperation under her hands and only trying to be conciliatory - would be to go to the healers. gwenaëlle has been tarred with the delicate brush of her mother's chronic illness, her every headache or cough scrutinized closely by family attendants; she knows herself to be from somewhat hardier stock, and has things to do, and the healers are far too busy to be called away to tend to her in private, so she will...something. later. she doesn't feel like it, and she's busy, too, you know. she has things to do now.

which is why she is making this brief message. over the sending crystals, no one has to know she's propped up on pillows in bed with her writing and not at the desk a bit more suited to the purpose. )

If I might steal a moment of the attention of anyone who isn't currently trapped in the clutches of their healer or a fever -

My name is Lady Gwenaëlle Vauquelin, and I have recently put to the advisors a proposal that they have given their approval to, that I will write on my observations of life at Skyhold to be published from Orlais in serial form. Obviously, what I write shall be closely examined before it reaches my publisher, that no inadvertent intelligence go to our enemies, but -

I see a means by which those for whom you all fight might-- ( her vision swims a little and she screws her eyes shut, takes a deep breath. fuck this stupid fever, she's fine, she hates to be ill, if she ignores it, it will probably go away - ) might have the opportunity to appreciate what you do. And perhaps see opportunities to support it. To be coaxed into being on the right side of history, as it were.

( to be reminded that they should, and that they can bloody well create opportunities to support the inquisition, which is trying to save all of their ungrateful backsides. attaching the established voice of a wealth orlesian noblewoman to that particular message will send it further than it might have otherwise gone, and heeded by those who might not have otherwise heeded it.

she writes well, besides that, but it can't be ignored that she could write twice as well and be heard half so loud without the sway of her name. )

Anyway. If you want something in particular brought to attention, tell me so and I might.

( if it's not stupid. )

Comments

private.

[byblow]

Closely examined by whom?

private ad infinitem.

[trouvaille]

The Inquisition leadership. They'll vet all drafts before publication.

( she must be in a good mood. the 'duh, obviously' tone is only subtle. )

[byblow]

All of them?

[ Not actually the point. ]

—I'm not sure how much they care about the Wardens at the moment, beyond inadvertent intelligence or whatever, but if you could make sure to leave us out of everything for now I can owe you a favor.

[trouvaille]

Define 'leave you out'.

( a thoughtful pause; )

And 'favour'.

[byblow]

Well, those of us here are, from some perspectives, deserters and fugitives, and we would rather not be summoned to the Anderfels just yet, so not mentioning that we're here would be kind of you. For starters. 'Favor' I would be willing to leave open, but I'm very good at carrying things, for example.

[trouvaille]

Very well. On the understanding that I will be defining favour, I will leave reference to the Wardens out of anything that goes to my editor.

( ha ha they're totally staying in the private copies that she's saving for after all this mess, though. )

[byblow]

Thank you. Call it in whenever you want.

[ A beat. ]

I won't kill anybody for you, so we're clear there.

[trouvaille]

I think that would be rather disproportionately generous of you, no?

[byblow]

Very. But you might be surprised how often I've been asked. Or—people I was with were asked, I suppose, while I was standing there. I don't really have a face that says I'll kill a man for you. But you can't see my face, so I thought I should make it clear. Unless it's someone who can be talked to death, [ he says, beginning to trail off into self-deprecating muttering, ] and then clearly I'm your man.

[trouvaille]

My unhelpful man. I suppose I'd have to do you a better favour first.