therookery | (no subject)

FORM: crystal
SENDER: Marisol & Finch
RECIPIENT: everyone
WHAT:

WHEN: during the mission to Ferelden
WHERE: somewhere, Ferelden
NOTES: sorry, Finch.

Oh, colleagues, friends. Esteemed Inquisition members and orbiting loiterers. I have a question for you; a matter of function and form.

And napkins.

And delicate masculinity, imperiled by investment in attire. Finch and I have been discussing a deeply controversial topic, one that I fear may chill you all to the core. This could be what strengthens the Inquisition and brings us together as an effective force to defeat the evils of this world, or could see us forever divided and scattered to the winds of uncertainty.

( Aghast: ) It’s not del — how’s it delicate not wanting to sew a bib on half your chest? Can’t be the Banns actually dress like this. Not dribbling on themselves. They’ve got, I don’t know, servants for that.

(She sounds concerned. )

Have you been recently dribbled on?

( Not that concerned, though. ) Moving on— ruffles, Inquisition. Serah Finch asserts that there is never time or place for tasteful ruffles, which I must add, do not resemble bibs.

I washed it! That’s the point!

( Dribbling. )

Look. You’re all — ( Insane? But you can’t say that out loud. ) — Worldly, how long do you reckon we’ve got before someone catches their fancy sleeves on fire?

( Quietly, ) I think perhaps you missed a spot, there’s a little something—

( And perhaps it is possible to imagine her leaning over to (pretend to?) wipe something off his face. )

( The scuffling thump of someone toppling abruptly off a horse. )

Material properly fashioned - whether in ruffles or drapery or whatever fine form it may take - is not an inherent fire hazard. Competence and poise are key.

( Helpfully, ) And they might cushion your fall, sometimes. A thought for next time.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

No, you know, the ones where she's got her hands all folded up, and there's the light and little birds. They sell them all over. I don't reckon she's supposed to be dead in them, it's more,

[ he's miming sleeping. it's less than divine. ]

( Hmm. )

I think perhaps you hit your head when you fell off the horse.

[ scoff. like this is the first time he's fallen off a horse.

(small text scoff. faintly self-conscious scoff. this is not the first time he's fallen off a horse.) ]

We can fetch you one in Amaranth. For your estate.

[ : ) ]

( an amused hum. )

Fetch me a head, or a horse?