[ The voice on the crystal is not Orlesian, no matter how he peppers his speech with little words and phrases: he’s Ferelden. But Ferelden of the drawling, upper-class sort, with a nasal accent that speaks of nothing so much as it speaks of a sort of mocking cosmopolitan condescension. ]

Bonsoir, Inquisition. My dear brave warriors and warrior-ettes, lately returned of the wilds of Tevinter, oh my. I have arrived, so you may release that breath you have bated; you may allow your loins to ungird themselves. Je m’appelle Byerly, Byerly Rutyer, once of Dragonmount, today of — well — here, I suppose. Do tell me all about this sweet little cottage with its charming statuary. Who was the sculptor on those? Where might he be found? My great-aunt Mathilde would simply adore a figurine from him, I think, of a sweet little round-cheeked puppy being whipped and tortured to death. I’d be the favored nephew if I could get her that.

But once we’re done speaking of architecture, I’ve a far more serious matter. Grave, even. Dire. I have here, in my hands, two bottles of red. A very fine vintage, velvety with just the slightest bit of grip. Semi-dry. If you can come and guess the provenance of the one bottle, then, dear friend, you’ll win the other. A fun game, no? The second-best sort of game - one that ends with both parties a little bit tipsy.

[ From the sound of his voice, he may have gotten started on getting tipsy a little early. ]

Oh, and diplomats, diplomats! To me. I'm joining your ranks. Introduce yourself to me at once, I do demand it.