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

[rathercommon]

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

[slaveking]

Do you?

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

How's that work?

[The pupil becomes the teacher.]

[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.

[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]

Dwarves. Beg your pardon.

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

[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]

[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?

[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?

[rathercommon]

[ She smiles to herself. The expression is grim, but her voice is perfect: cheerful, a little teasing. ]

How do you know I don't?

[slaveking]

I figure you'd be hesitant to bring demon technology to life, is all. Where I come from, we have some dark stories about that kind of a thing.

[His voice is just as light.]

[rathercommon]

Well. In this world, demons don't tend to deal in machinery. But maybe I'm just that reckless.

[slaveking]

[fair enough.]

Do you think I'm a demon?

[rathercommon]

[ Too direct a question for her to evade. So: ]

No. I don't.

[slaveking]

You on the other hand--

[The joke is unmistakable in his tone.]

[rathercommon]

[ What. ]

Excuse me?

[slaveking]

Infernal. Can't place my finger on exactly how.

[rathercommon]

I am not infernal! Dwarves don't even have a connection to the Fade. It'd take very unusual circumstances for us to get possessed.

[slaveking]

All right, all right, [Marcel's voice of surrender here.] I withdraw my suspicions. And applaud your purity of spirit.

[rathercommon]

Well, it's less purity, more...Just something about us. We don't enter the Fade, do magic. Any of it. So - I'm a little bit less scared of demons than elves and humans and qunari are, probably. Which is why I'm definitely going to be less jumpy and paranoid and more willing to trust you than a lot of people are. To answer your question, ultimately, of why I'm being nice to you.

[slaveking]

Well I was hoping that my knowledge of technology and rumbling baritone made me special. But I'll take it.

And have to hope that Rifters like me are likewise... uninteresting to the Fade. Despite having minor magic. Sounds like you can't put your finger on it. Whatever sets your people apart.

[rathercommon]

[ A shrug. ]

Well, there are legends, certainly. And explanations. The most likely one is that it's because of our lives lived near to lyrium, which...certainly isn't an advantage you've had. But yeah, I do hope that as well. It's really a lot less trouble, not having that connection.

[slaveking]

[Lyrium. At this point, Marcel's heard of that. He wonders immediately if it's like vervain.]

Would it help if I carried some lyrium around, or something? I mean I know it isn't easy to get ahold of. And it's not a toy. [Encyclopedic knowledge, go.]

[rathercommon]

[ A quick laugh - rather at his expense. ]

Oh...No. It wouldn't help. At all. Lyrium isn't a magic-blocker or something like that. It actually facilitates magic. It's more like...

[ She thinks about it a moment. ]

Sort of like - a poison, really. My people have built up resistance to it over many, many years, by just living near it and being exposed to it in low doses. Someone unaccustomed to it, exposed to raw lyrium, will at least get sick, or go mad. Or die outright.