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

[glandival]

There is slavery in the north. In the Tevinter Imperium, all elves are slaves. [ She thinks. She's pretty sure that's true. She read it on the Internet. ] Here, it is--

[ She hesitates. Or the sending crystal stops working. No, here she is-- ]

It is different. What do you care, when you're from a place across the Fade, with its own troubles?

[slaveking]

[Marcel doesn't know the exact word he wants in French. He remembers pitié, but he remembers that had connotations back home, and something about her answer makes him think such connotations exist here too.]

I wouldn't call it compassion. There's a long story, but it could sound like I'm bragging. Maybe another time.

[glandival]

As you like.

[ She pauses. Thinks. Reverts back to Orlesian. ]

I am from Halamshiral. It is a city of Orlais, the capital city of the Dales, which were the lands given by Andraste to the elven people after their civilisation was destroyed by Tevinter, as reward for their part in her uprising. But no peace with humans last, and the Dales were taken again from the elves.

We aren't a people with claim of anything anymore. The Dalish live in the wild and shun all else, and city elves live within the boundaries given us. We aren't slaves, we're just. Elves.

Perhaps that doesn't make sense. Another rifter, Martel, he says elves don't even exist in his world, except in stories.

[slaveking]

[A disenfranchised people, he wants to say. Oppressed and discriminated against. It's the legacy of slavery. But he doesn't know the Orlesian for that, and he's not sure he understands enough to speak to it out loud.]

We don't have elves either. Just stories. And then we call them fae mostly. But I think that's how we think of spirits— spirits of nature. It's a weak connection to your Dalish, but maybe like that.

It makes enough sense. [There's a lapsing pause beCAUSE THIS WOULD Be easier in English.] When you say 'elven people,' I hear 'people.' People do things like this to each other in my world too.

[glandival]

[ At 'spirits of nature', Sabine snorts, impolite and full of contempt. But it's clearly not so off the mark, if that reaction is held at readiness. Then; ]

It is what we call ourselves, too. [ In common, she clarifies; ] The People.

How did your slavery end?

[slaveking]

With a war.

[Marcel's answer is matter-of-fact. Not at all off-put by the contemptuous tone she took for that, but of if she turns that attitude toward this particular event, that will be a whole other thing.

He has just enough faith in the good of mankind (elfkind) not to assume, though.]

Of course-- in the books of history, the war was fought between people who could own slaves, mostly. But we were there. It was different to live it. [The words feel clumsy on his tongue, but he's game to try.]

[glandival]

Your words sound older than your voice.

[ It's not an accusation. A little teasing, but only after a meditative pause, reflection. She might disparage the mysticism people like to assign the Dalish, but not slavery. ]

They always change books. But the people remember.

[slaveking]

[Slavery is terrible, down with the Tevinters >%O]

Until they die. Guess I got lucky. [He sounds wry, evasive in a way that suggests she should really meet him so they can talk about it, possibly over dinner.]

[glandival]

Oui.

[ Sabine is already of the mind she has said more than she ought on a public channel, even if in Orlesian.

She reverts to the common language, as if to signal a close. ]

Not so lucky these days.

[slaveking]

Nah. I had a bad run, [he agrees.] Lucky for me, my family lives long.

[He can take a hint.]

Maybe I'll see you around, Sabine.