crystal.

[cozen]

FORM: Crystal
SENDER: Bastien
RECIPIENT: Everyone
NOTES: Nonsense. If your characters will not say anything but are obviously/observably involved with people, please feel even more encouraged than normal to "not here" reply with the deets for everyone's gossip-gathering purposes.

Bonjour, mes amis.

[ Faintly sing-song, but in a drawling and subdued way. It doesn't do to sound too chipper and excited about asking people semi-invasive questions. ]

I have been talking to the Seneschal, and we thought—well, it's possible we might need a fraternization policy. Or a record, at least, in case it becomes a problem later. And to decide whether that is necessary: information about fraternization.

[ It's obvious from his voice that he's pleased that that rhymes. ]

So who is together? Or involved, if together is a scary word.

Please feel very free to rat out your bashful friends.

[ As an afterthought, ]

If you have opinions about the policy or record part, I will take those, too.

Comments

[heirring]

Oh for gods' sake! Now who is being purposefully obtuse! What if you're missing some key friend or relation who has been standing under you nose this entire time? Why, if not for happenstance, I myself might easily be one of—

Do you really mean to imply that I would be so foolish as to waste my time so extraordinarily?

[degenere]

Imply? Mademoiselle. I never imply. Here I would only observe that you do possess an inordinate amount of acquaintances whose purpose in your life cannot possibly be comprehended, understood, or justified out of necessity or need--and, if you were questioned, I very much doubt you would be able to provide evidence for why you have come to know them. You are always saying names! Do you deny it?

[heirring]

Me? I am always saying names! From you, with your Gerards and Sauveterres and your two dozen rivals who can be found in every estate and pothole from here to Halamshiral?!

I would indeed be able to provide every reason for any name at all you might ask after, only I doubt you can recall a single one to press me for it.

[degenere]

[Rivals are entirely different, which she might know if she were interesting enough to have rivals--but Val has not the time to make that declaration, because--]

Mister Ellis.

[--he is too ready with that instead.]

[heirring]

[There is that scoff, the one she's so good at—expelled so forcefully it's a wonder Wysteria doesn't pop something.]

Oh, yes. Naturally. Mister Ellis.

[Yes, he knows that name perfectly well, doesn't he?]

Warden Ellis is a skilled combatant, and has protected myself and Mister Stark from all manner of terrible things while we've studied the Rifts. And he has been indispensable with respect to the ordering of the house, and his knowledge of the Deep Roads and his connections in Orzammar have been of great assistance with my work. More, he has been a fine friend to myself and to Mister Stark. He has a good temperament and is honest and why you insist on being so low over any of it, I truly do not know. I've never been half so dreadful to any of your friends.

[degenere]

[Val manages to listen to the litany of praise, interjecting only occasionally by snorting and scoffing in his own right. But by the time she reaches that insult to him, he can no longer bear it, and he begins talking right over her.]

Yes, and he is reliable, and he is steadfast, and he will return from the Anderfels any day now. And this absence will also manage to be a mark in his favor, somehow? How fascinating. I suppose I have been acquainted with those whose exclusion from a party was worthy of commendation.

[heirring]

[She sucks in a breath, all fury and abrupt stinging hurt in equal measure.]

That is a terrible thing to say.

[degenere]

But not the worst that could be said.

[Which surely makes it better. On the other hand, what is too far, really.]

And in any case, I find your testimonial touching, certainly heartfelt, bordering upon the maudlin, and maintain that already I know the best people and am interesting in knowing no others.

[heirring]

[There is a narrow, flickering instant where the jab wounds. Yes, she can clearly imagine the worse version of what might be said. And if this were an argument in person, it might show. But it isn't, and so she snaps back with heat and no patina of harm at all.]

Fine! Then I will never introduce you to him. And I'll never forget that you were so horrible about the whole business either.

[degenere]

Good! Because I do not wish to be in-- [Wait a moment, Val changes tracks in the middle of his sentence,] --troduced, I-- I have not been horrible! About what business? The business of Mister Ellis, or the business of befriending every last Rifter and--

You cannot mean to hold this conversation against me!

[heirring]

Oh? Which part would you have me dismiss? The part where you've called my interest in Riftwatch's company a waste of time, or the one where you deemed my companions to be of little worth? Or the part where you implied I was rude for failing to introduce you to someone you have made quite clear now and many times before that you don't even wish to know? Or why you have suddenly decided that this is a question of knowing or not knowing Rifters, when I have said nothing at all about—

Is there a reason you would prefer I have fewer friends?

[degenere]

I prefer nothing for you! I do not think often of you, I have never once called you rude, and I think especially less often of your friends, and even less on how loosely you bandy that term about, until I am called to think upon it, and then--

Mademoiselle, it is simply that I do not understand! In my life, I have never once longed for any amount of deep and true acquaintances in numbers more than five. And that is working with a generous definition. And I have an appetite voracious for knowledge and learning, but I prefer work of focus and devotion!

[heirring]

[A dangerous full second of silence follows. Then, explosive as Antivan fire:]

You don't think of me?!

Good! Because I never think of you either! And I hope you enjoy your focused and devoted study and the company of your five acquaintances! In the mean time, I will continue to waste my time in ways you refuse to even attempt to understand. I don't know why I even considered the possibility that you might make so much as the slightest effort to—

I'll be certain not to bore you with any details of my work again!

[degenere]

And I hope that you enjoy your company of one thousand, [talking over her right up until his sharp,] what!

[Val backtracks quickly through what he just said, a student of personal archeology unearthing details of himself until he arrives at the dull weapon that historically--many minutes ago--many, many, minutes ago, so long ago in a conversation it might have been an Age, so why should it matter?--historically sliced the thin skin of the mademoiselle and released this poison which killed all wildlife in the surrounding area--

Oh, by the Maker.]

I did not say that! I did not say that I do not think of you. I said that I do not think of you. Not that I do not think of you!

[heirring]

[For a moment—a fraction of one, really; so split a second that it hardly counts as anything at all—she is almost tricked into being placated, stumbling over what is emphasized and what isn't—

Her scoff is very nearly a shout of disdain. It is the aural equivalent of an outraged foot being stamped or something heavy thrown at an offensive person's head.]

They are identical statements! Oh, this is nonsense. You are being nonsensical! And I have no time to— I will not sit here and be thought of as unreasonable when— 'I said of you, not of you.' Really, sir! Well you may keep your various of's and you's and whatever else comes between or about them in any arrangement. They are of no importance to me whatsoever.

Now, if you don't mind I have something to throw off the top of the central tower.

[degenere]

[This marriage is the only marriage in the Gallows--perhaps even in Kirkwall, and in most parts of Thedas--where one would hear a scoff of such passion and volume and think, Whew. A relief. A terrible crisis has been avoided. Or mostly avoided.

Probably.

Immediately conversational once more--] What is being thrown?

[heirring]

[A tone which is, for the record, the very height of infuriating. How dare he be so unfeeling! And so, resolutely determined to remain in crisis and primly vicious:]

I don't care to tell you.

[degenere]

[He clicks his tongue against his teeth.]

Do not tease. A... coin.

[heirring]

I am not— [A frustrated sound like a breath hisses between the teeth.]

I refuse to tell you. If you really care to know, then I suppose you'll simply have to climb to the top of the central tower. And that is the end of it, Monsieur. I'm done speaking with you at present.

[SO THERE. —And she really is going to hang up on him, which is less effective when one is merely muting a crystal to receive messages later but the point stands.]

[degenere]

I suppose that I will climb!

[--Is the very important message delivered whenever Wysteria gets around to listening to it later.

Is it very (in its way) telling that the meesage was this simple? That there were no additional words of clarification to ensure her understanding that the climbing was done coincidentally, entirely because Val had some interest in something thoroughly unrelated that was also at the top of the central tower?

Yes, it is telling. But that's no one's business.]

[heirring]

[And whether Wysteria will make any particularly note of this fact when she finally does hear it must at least be in part dependent on the success of this experiment.

No, not the one where she has dredged one of the combat practice dummies up from the training yard to the griffon eyrie. Rather, the test of some other hypothesis—one which she would have considerable trouble articulating if pressed, but whose irritatingly unanswered form chafes when she finds herself wrestling with it's outline.

By the time Val reaches the griffon eyrie, Wysteria will have already recited all her complaints to the resident animals. That Val de Foncé is a terrible, thick headed, arrogant, outrageously rude scoundrel who only cares about himself and his own opinion. 'And worst of all,' she informs one griffon, 'Even if he does agree with you then he expects you to do all the proper work.' So instead he will discover Wysteria studiously muttering over and wrestling with the disparate components of a large wooden frame which she is attempting to stretch a large bolt of sail cloth over.

This prospect is being made slightly more difficult with one working hand (the prosthetic with the clamp Tony has made for her is only so deft) and—]

Stop it! Go eat the rats I brought you!

[—two curious griffons attempting to assist her by trampling all over the working space and plucking at the various lines cabling the frame to the test dummy.]

[degenere]

[The griffon eyrie is a sacred space to Val de Foncé, who has long coveted and admired the precious beasts. When does one have the distinct and hitherto unparalleled pleasure of witnessing the regeneration of a species thought extinct? That the griffons are guarded so jealously makes a kind of sense--because it is very good to have an advantage over one's enemy, and also, one could not ignore the chance that their exposure might wipe the creatures from known existence once more--although the ingenuity and tenacity of the griffon has now been doubly proved, since they were only thought extinct but in fact were not, were surviving all on their own--and it is therefore only hubris that would make one think onee might keep them alive by one's own will alone--

These are the thoughts that Val had been having as he was climbing the endless stairs to the top of the tower. It is a very long climb, and he had briefly paused upon the last landing to catch his breath, so that now when he emerges, he is fresh-faced and composed and breathing entirely evenly. And for once, no little beast accompanies him. But he is carrying his satchel and--pausing again--he reaches inside its depths and when he withdraws his hand, he withdraws it with a fistful of salted meat.]

Mesdames! [--which he follows with a piercing whistle. Wary of sharp beaks and talons and large rushing bodies and wings and the precarious height that their little party finds itself, Val throws the strips of meat onto the stones and dashes to the left. This leaves plenty of space for Wysteria's two harriers to rush in to receive their gift--which they will do, of course!--and leaves him with a view of the peculiar pile of slender wood framing and sailcloth.]

What is this!

dw betraying me by not sending this notif

[heirring]

[That Wysteria straightens at Mesdames just as briskly as the griffons accosting her work do is strictly not a point that they will be discussing, particularly as her stormy expression goes slightly stormier and redder when she marks exactly who the call and whistle belongs to. Moreover, she has dragged a part of the frame upright with her by dint of the clamp end of her prosthetic arm and now it must be reset so she can try once more to stretch the canvas over all the appropriate corners—

Really, is there no little project not made more difficult by his presence?

(Never mind that with the griffons otherwise engaged, Wysteria does briskly manage to right the frame and wrench the third of four sailcloth corners into place.)]

If you're so clever, why don't you tell me?

[With a pop!, she releases the clamp of her make-do hand and moves to wrestle with the sail's last connector point.]

how VERY dare

[degenere]

[Having been stepping in the direction of that fourth corner, ostensibly to make himself helpful, Val is arrested by this question. He stops where he is and assumes a thoughtful position--head cocked, finger to his chin.]

Hmm, [he actually says. And in this pose, he makes a thorough and thoughtful study of the framework and the clamp-hand and his industrious scholarly wife, and he thinks. The nearby chomping of the griffons is a pleasant sort of music, if you enjoy that sort of thing.

Eventually:] A sail. Or a screen behind which one might put on a shadowplay. But that does not strike me as very you, Mademoiselle. Why a sail upon a tower? Must it be cast upon its ship from some great height?

great news I got both of those

[heirring]

[It takes nearly all this thoughtful time for Wysteria to crank closed the clamp onto this fourth corner. It makes a soft ratcheting sound with each rotation of the crank, the click-click-click a staccato backing track to Val's reasoned guesswork.]

Why on earth would anyone come all the way up here to put on a play— No. Clearly it's neither of those.

[Clearly. Grasping the laces with their little hook ends stitched into the sail cloth's corner, she struggles to dredge it over the edge of the frame. This part requires considerable strength to bend the cloth and hook its laces into the waiting matching eyelets. She strains for moment at the task, flush and impatient and frustrated.]

These fit before.