Inquisition.

[Hello again it's Val, very Orlesian.]

Or should I said, traitors. When a man dies, it is customary to gather the family together in the most comfortable--or uncomfortable, if it is a family that deserves punishing--and read aloud from his will. Even the most foolhardy of men must have such a document prepared. Or else how will he, upon his death, deal one last blow to those who would grub for his worldly possessions, and deal one last kiss upon the cheek to those who he loved so well and in his love, found deserving of his best things?

An example. In my will, I have written: to Freddie, I leave half my books. To Jehan, I leave the other half. And if both are dead--as they must surely be, if my will is being read, for we would have perished together, the three of us, united as we have been for so long, no doubt embarked upon some fantastical quest the like of which only a small number have been privileged enough to have lived--then I leave all of my books to the great library University of Orlais, the place where my heart truly resides.

In my will, I have not written: to the Inquisition, I leave the right to give away my position. What is more--

[Loudly, now--] I WAS NOT DEAD. I am not dead. I am alive. And now I must prove such a thing? Absurd! And then, the insult that compounds the injury: now I find that as I bear this grave indignity, I must also bear demotion?

It is unheard of. Uncouth. I suffer. By the Maker, I will make all suffer with me.