o1 ♚ especially coffee

[slaveking]

FORM: Sending crystal
SENDER: Marcel Gerard
RECIPIENT: Public; any and all interested
WHAT: A Rifter would like to futilely inquire as to the incomprehensible physics of Rifting and seek actually unavailable instruction w.r.t. how to get the Hell back home, please and thanks.
WHEN: Timing (backdated, covering a span, etc.)
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Maybe P3-13 for language? If somebody gets emotional!

Good morning, Thedas.

[By now, the name of the world sounds comfortable enough in his mouth, but his accent is likely remains somewhat Other, cutting the consonants of his deep voice.] My name is Marcel Gerard. In the world I come from, magic is a secret pretty well-hidden from humans, and the full strength of abominations waits every month on the full moon. [Sorry, werewolves. Somebody hates you.] We also have horseless carriages, ballet, instant coffee, and the Internet. The world is called New Orleans. If you know what any of that means, we should talk.

And if you don't, you might be just the person to help me get home. You got thoughts on how to prolapse a Rift? I want to hear 'em. Talk to me.

Comments

[foxsays]

She rescued me from a demon so I think I owe it to her not to let my temper get the best of me. [And she does manage to laugh a little because here? Blank slate. No one to tell tales about how quickly and easily she sometimes loses her temper when the red mist descends.]

Unfortunately, no. The mages have their own council but they weren't prepared for us at all and everyone else arrived when we were dealing with scouts going missing, corpses, other awful things. It would be a good idea though, even just to share what we've all learned.

[But the mages have the good space and the tavern is less than suitable, at least for people meeting quietly and trying to share something that might be very difficult.]

Perhaps it'd be worth asking about to find if there's a place and time we could steal a room for, even down in the lower levels.

[slaveking]

Nothing like our bastards hiding from comeuppance behind anonymity.

[Honestly, the Internet is one of their least concerns. Witches, body-hopping. That's real chaos.]

[rathercommon]

Well. There are the Orlesians, I suppose. Though you always know who it is behind the mask, so perhaps not.

[slaveking]

[Marcel is quiet for a few long seconds. He is rather tempted to call the man out on pulling his leg, but that seems' a little unfair, from a vampire. Right?

Most people still think vampires are bullshit. Right?]

What've we done lately? [he asks.] What stupid shit do we pull in the space-age?

[slaveking]

Well there's a lot of terrain types in France. It's possible.

[He even vaguely recalls something about a desert there.]

What kind of food do you eat? Any particular... special ones?

[He doesn't know the word 'delicacies.']

[motherfucking_ghost]

[Hell yeah vampires are bullshit, what the fuck is this, an actual rpg?]

Oh, you know, the usual. Military bullshit, egotistical mad scientists, playing god, starting wars, making people fight against themselves instead of bigger threats, dick measuring contests, automated voicemail asking you to press eleven. Same old.

[slaveking]

[What if we get bugged, Marcel wants to say, but that seems like a profoundly anachronistic concern to have. Besides, with compulsion at his disposal, he can handle most security concerns easily enough. The question is only getting away with it.

Easy answer: even more compulsion!]

I can look into it, [he offers.] I'm looking at doing some day labor, maybe see if they'll let me help with the numbers too. [Already, he's figured out that having an education is rare in these parts; an asset he intends to capitalize on.] Can I ask who your friend is, the one who saved you?

[slaveking]

Do you?

[Apparently he's drawing a blank on this aspect of Orlesian culture.]

How's that work?

[The pupil becomes the teacher.]

[slaveking]

Man.

Unfortunately, that does sound just like home. Sad to hear some things haven't changed. Tell me we at least ended hunger.

[rathercommon]

Well, they always brag about their deeds and titles. From behind their idiotic masks. If you don't know who they are, they'll fall over themselves to remedy that. They want to have the illusion of secrecy and mystery while actually laying everything that they are right out in the open.

[glandival]

Not amongst the common folk, but the noble houses make their own rules that I don't know if the Fereldan lords would have in their houses. Like putting birds in other birds and baking them. Sauces on everything. And they love their desserts. I think only breakfast doesn't call for a final sweet course.

But I don't know of very special things. You can get every food you can imagine in Orlais.

[slaveking]

[Marcel starts to laugh, the sound throbbing out of the stone rich and sincere. Somehow that sounds both incredibly familiar and utterly bizarre.]

Now I'll be able to recognize an Orlesian from a mile away. Thanks. You're-- um. What country are elves from?

[rathercommon]

[ She corrects him: ]

Dwarves. And we don't have a country, exactly. And I especially don't, since I'm a surfacer. But I was born in Orlais.

[slaveking]

[Oh God it's France. Marcel laughs— genuine and unmitigated delight.

Ah, shit.]

That reminds me of home, [he offers, by way of explanation why he's laughing.] I take it you haven't had much of a chance to try those foods then. Yes?

[motherfucking_ghost]

Uhhhh, I don't actually know. Kind of more focused on the alien space war part. Things have been pretty rough, though. Cuz. Y'know. War.

[slaveking]

Dwarves. Beg your pardon.

I'm sorry. Surfacer? Do you consider yourself Orlesian?

[foxsays]

[Please don't get them into trouble - or at least look at the cells. Because that's going to be one cold and wet climb before sliding right down the mountain.]

Keep in touch, I'm usually around doing whatever needs doing. [Translation: scaring people on the battlements running errands or getting under the feet of the kitchen staff when she's not in the tavern.] As for my rescuer, her name is Korrin Ataash, trust me, you can't miss her. [No one can miss a mage or a tall grey horned person after all, certainly not one as striking as Korrin.]

[slaveking]

[A beat.]

Is there probing?

[rathercommon]

Oh. God, no. Not Orlesian.

[ She lets out a grunt of disapproval. Then: ]

We dwarves have a kingdom built underground, in the Stone. Those who come topside, or who were born topside like me, are considered outsiders. Lost to the Stone. Us and the Casteless. But that doesn't mean we're suddenly not dwarves, culturally speaking. No more than elves are Ferelden if they're from a Ferelden alienage. They're still elves.

[slaveking]

[Marcel parses 'whatever needs doing' correctly. Odd jobs. He got a lot of drifters through New Orleans doing the same.] Thanks. Good to know who the allies could be, when we got this many people trying maybe to burn us at the stake.

[slaveking]

[Huh. That kind of makes sense to Marcel, he decides. There were a lot of vagrant vampires who had nothing in the way of geographical loyalty or demarcations, at least until they found him.]

'Lost to the Stone.' Sounds pretty damning. You run with your own crew, then? Some other-- surfacers?

[motherfucking_ghost]

What? Ew, don't be gross, dude. There's killing.

...Okay, so my friend maybe ended up with an alien baby in him. So. It's, uh. It's not all killing. Sometimes it's prophecies and alien babies.

[rathercommon]

[ She gives a laugh and sidesteps the question: ]

Well, the Inquisition now, right?

[slaveking]

[It takes him a moment to parse that she's sidestepping, and he has good grace enough not to press.]

New question.

[This is him backing off.]

Why don't you think I'm a demon?

[slaveking]

[A beat.

Multiple beats. A long moment where Marcel is definitely waiting for the guy to inform him he's being punk'd. No? No such luck.]

I've decided I'm happy in the early 2000s. When did you say this shit starts?