news post (crystal)

[bouchonne]

FORM: Crystalllll
SENDER: Byerly Rutyer
RECIPIENT: every....one.....
WHAT: Byerly demanded the right to read the news, and I am sorry
WHEN: The moment this smacks your eyes
WHERE: Everywhere
NOTES: Smutty talk and cursing

Hear ye, hear ye. Bend your ear, fair maids and lads, and all you dissolute dung-heaps who have forsaken your virtue, shame on all of you, for most of you aren't even wed. Don't you know that humping should be only in the service of procreation? Blush, dear slatterns.

[ Oh, Maker, it's this guy. And he sounds happy. Indeed, he's cheerily clearing his throat, and saying - ]

It is I, Byerly Rutyer, here to read you the news of the world. Anyone who tunes me out is, therefore, going to be ill-informed and a disgrace. Your civic duty is to heed me.

First, the news from Nevarra! Oh, this is marvelous. It seems that the King is truly like a piece of cheese left out in cold weather - you know what I'm talking about - you come back after two months and somehow when you cut away the rind it's still edible. What I mean to say is that he's still alive. Rumor on the street is that he died months ago and has been puppeted by those horrifying Nevarran necromancers. What do they call them? Moriteasers? Anyway.

Now, the fair land of Orlais. I have good news and bad news there. First, the bad news: still full of Orlesians. Second, the good - ah, no, sorry, this is actually also bad news. Welcome to the Inquisition, newcomers, it is always thus. It turns out the peasants are revolting - [ A pause, and then - ] Oh, really, someone was supposed to say "what else is new." You're all useless. So - the peasants are revolting - lightly revolting - because as it turns out someone has gotten in their heads and made them forget that their duty is to die on behalf of their betters. Hideous. Was it one of you? You're all bloody halfway to being social revolutionaries yourselves. In any case. In Montsimmard and Verchiel, there have been riots, because the peasants are displeased with the way that they're being arrested when they refuse to fight. They're not being hanged. So touchy. They're also displeased because they're being compensated less when their possessions are seized for the war efforts. Honestly, what value material wealth? Why can't people like that let it go? Why do things matter so much to them?

And now Tevinter. Good news and bad news. Good news, the Tevinters have their own country, and none of us are ever obligated to go there, praise the Maker. Bad news - oh, no, actually this is rather good news. Don't get used to it, newcomers; the Inquisition is rarely thus. The anti-Venatori sorts are refusing to engage with the Venatori, since they suspect the Venatori may have murdered one of their cohort...which is such base slander, honestly, could you imagine a Venatori ever doing something like that? Such sweet, honest folks. The Venatori cry - [ In a bad Tevinter accent mixed with a generic stage-play villain voice: ] "You wretches! You merely wish to delay us in our path to executing our dastardly plan!" To which the others cry - [ Again a Tevinter accent, though this time resonant and heroic - ] "Get fucked!" Vote will happen in Firstfall. We all hold our breath in antici...

[ Loooooong pause. ]

Antiva! Oh, finally, some news that actually matters. Fashion, my dears, we're talking fashion. The look of the season, this season, is black ribbons and teardrop-shaped pearls. Why? Oh, my darlings, in tribute to us. They're weeping symbolically. Not, of course, sending any assistance or resources, but oh, they weep! And also spend. And also turn glorious profit. Turns out certain merchant princes with pearl interests and black-silk interests have been particularly vociferous in reminding their citizens that they should express their sympathies. So if you want to line your pockets, dear ones, ship your black ribbons off to Antiva before Satinalia's end. And be comforted, knowing that they care just enough for it to set a fashion trend.

[ A clap of his hands. ]

Have you news to share? Information for the rank gossip-mongers? We're hungry for it. Oh, feed us. Feed us, please.

Comments

[bouchonne]

Why not both? Did the recounting of the news please you? It pleased me. I think that town crier is perhaps beneath me, with my fine pedigree, but it's just such a delight to carry out.

[katabasis]

Is it fine?

[Dry and crackling as summer grass.]

Consider including a summary at the end for your next captive audience.

[bouchonne]

Oh, amongst the finest. The Rutyers fought fierce against the Occupation. Mine own grandfather was famed for his cheerful torture of the masked occupiers. - Say, really, we're kindred spirits, aren't we? People who got there just a bit too late to liberate our homes. My problem being born too late, yours being...

[katabasis]

[A pause so the temperature of this conversation can sufficiently plummet.]

Go on.

[bouchonne]

[ heh heh heh. ]

Oh, I couldn't. After all, I don't know what went on there. I only have my imaginings. And rumors of a little traveling show that's been making its rounds around Tevinter's taverns.

[katabasis]

People known for their credibility, then.

[Sounds like an invitation under the razoring sarcasm though.]

[bouchonne]

If we can't trust erotic puppeteers, nauarchus, who can we trust?

Well, you might be interested to know what some of the puppets look like. First, the puppet of Charles Vane has the most phenomenally large manhood. Is it like that in real life, do you know? Your puppet, I fear, I have heard no rumors of, so it must be unremarkable. Particularly since, in this play, I understand that all of the Nascereans were quite literally caught with their pants down.

[katabasis]

[It's hard to dead stare someone into mortal dread over crystal, but trust that Flint's doing his level best.]

Is there a point to this, Mr Rutyer? I've already listened to you go on once today.

[bouchonne]

Of course there's a point to it. Can you not see the point of knowing what they're saying about you?

[katabasis]

[The brusque edge melts away. What's left behind is more pointed, patiently sharp.]

There must be better ways than this to make yourself matter.

[This being 'being a nuisance.']

[bouchonne]

Do you think my desire is to make myself matter, my captain? Why on earth would I want that?

[katabasis]

You're certainly going to great lengths [literally] to make yourself relevant.

[bouchonne]

[ That's - uncomfortably perceptive. It's not exactly relevance he wants, per se, but - prominence, yes; the ability to be thought of as a natural part of the Inquisition. The ability to go unquestioned. And the ability to be seen as rather pathetic, a joker and a fool but nothing more than that - the ability to be perceived not as a threat at all. Is Flint picking up on that? Or is he simply casting barbs in the hopes they'll land? ]

Well.

[ He lets out a heavy, jovial sigh, a touche sort of noise. ]

A man does have to eat. The Inquisition is not in the business of feeding those who refuse to pull their weight, no? Aside from all those refugees, I suppose. And I'd sooner not be one of them. They do reek.

[katabasis]

[Maybe if he hadn't seen all that flash of attentiveness behind Byerly's easy grin or if he hadn't almost stepped straight into the edge of whatever metaphorical knife Byerly has hiding near his side, he'd have no reason to pivot so. Or maybe he's paranoid. Or maybe he's giving the man too much credit based entirely on a sense of familiarity that doesn't actually exist. Regardless, he can't shake the feeling of a feint in progress even if he can't see the direction.

Diplomacy, he'd said. And as the Inquisition can hardly be called discretionary when it comes to recruitment--]

I'd be surprised if you hadn't already found some other way of pulling your weight, Rutyer. 'Tugging on legs', wasn't it?

[Someone must be doing it on the Inquisition's behalf.]

[bouchonne]

[ Making a great show of being puzzled - ]

Tugging on legs...No, that's not what I tug. And I only sometimes get paid - oh. Oh, yes, I remember now.

[ Brightly - ]

Alas, that's not something that pays, either.

[katabasis]

Doesn't it? [Flatly--] Strange. You should consider a different employer.

[bouchonne]

Any suggestions?

[katabasis]

I'm afraid no one suitable comes to mind.

[assistente]

It is not-- A town crier has a different responsibility. This is--larger, in many ways--

[w h y]

[bouchonne]

That's true. I suppose a town crier is supposed to be much more emotional. Here -

[ He sniffles loudly, then bursts into maudlin sobs as he says - ]

Hear ye - heaaaarrr yeeee -

[assistente]

[The pressing question now changes from why to what and why.]

No-- what? No, that is not what I-- no town crier has eve--why would tears be required, for-- Stop, at once!

[bouchonne]

[ Warbling - ]

News from the warfront...

[assistente]

This is entirely unnecessary--

[bouchonne]

[ A wail. ]

[assistente]

[Panicked:]

Stop! Please! Stop, at once, there is no-- This is, entirely-- Stop!