open ||

[degenere]

FORM: sending crystal
SENDER: Val de Foncé (and with him, as always, is Jehan Mercier)
RECIPIENT: e v e r y o n e
WHAT: the scholars of Orlais have something to say.
WHEN: now, right now
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: aren't they charming.


Inquisition, we are confused.

[Melodious, Orlesian, flirtatious (somehow even in this most simple of sentences): these are three words one might use to describe the sound of Val's voice. It makes confused sound kind of fun, if a bit puzzling.]

My friend and I have come all this way to be an asset to you. And now we have arrived here, to your Skyhold, and we find so much to be in want. How have you all managed so far, with these conditions? I am a man used to the roughness of a camp, a life of travel. I love this life. You'll find no one loves it more than me. But a camp, that is one thing, and this? It is meant to be a city, of a sort. Yet there is no apartment for us. There is barely a work space, in your library--we have been, my friend and I. We have seen the conditions. There is barely a book there.

I am sorry for you, Inquisition.

[So sincere. A pause, in which he has pressed a hand to his chest, in a deep show of pity. And then, briskly, cheerfully:]

But we will not leave you there, in sorrow. The good news. You now have, among your numbers, me. An introduction: Valentine de Foncé, a master architect, among many other masteries, too numerous to name. If you ask sweetly, I'll tell you them all. If you ask very sweetly, I'll give demonstration. And for the Inquisition, I will offer my services, and my knowledge--and so, too, does my friend. If only so we can get a decent space in which we can do our work. And believe me: you want this. We have arrived to be your greatest blessing.

Now, tell me. With business sorted: what does anyone do for fun around here?

Comments

[degenere]

Distressing. Painful. Bleak. Cheerless. Comment déprimant, there you go again--no, I maintain, you need cheering up, if the sadness of the dead is all that you think of. Of course it is sad for us. For them, it hardly matters. Or do you think they are spending whatever comes next moping about thinking sadly of you? If I were them, I would be celebrating. Cheerfully. All the time. They haven't a care in the world. Now, when I think of the dead, I like to think of the good of them. For instance, I knew a girl. She is dead now, of course, or else we would not be talking of her. But while she was alive, she had the most fantastic breasts. When I think about this girl, I think about her breasts, and I tell you, it is impossible to be sad with that thought in my head.

Honestly. The Anderfels must be a very sad and terrible place. Does everyone think this way?

I am sorry

[justice_is_blond]

How can I think any other way? Either I'm remembering those I've lost or I'm being reminded of those who have been lost because of me. It's all death. Even the two groups are blended together.

It has nothing to do with the Anderfels, or the 'good' in those who are lost. You talk of happiness in restrictions and the forbidden, of breasts and elbow room, but you've lost sight of the restrictions in the first place, and the little smiles that are gone forever because of cruel limits, and how sometimes less elbow room would be a good thing.

I'm not cheerless. I'm... reflective.

do not be sorry.

[degenere]

Pools are reflective. Mirrors are reflective. Poets are reflective, in moderation, if they're any good. You? Are cheerless. Depressing. Depressed. Did you just hear yourself? 'It's all death?' That is depressing. Straight from the text, if there is such a seminal text detailing the qualifications of depressing.

And more elbow room is always a good thing. Any contrary opinion can only be that of a man who never manned an oar in little ship on Rialto Bay. Elbows everywhere. It was cheerless, and there was no time for reflection, and yet still I was able to think on the breasts in question. But the elbows.

[justice_is_blond]

[He sounds tired. He is a bit tired.]

Then maybe that's simply what I am, depressing and depressed. I can't separate people from body parts or lessen their loss by fantasizing about only pieces of them. I don't know how, and I don't think I want to do that to them. They deserve better.

[degenere]

I only chose breasts because those were my favorite, you know. You can consider whole bodies.

[Depressing, and depressed. How... depressing. To that end:]

I suppose I must help you.

[justice_is_blond]

There's no 'must' involved. I don't even know what your definition of help is.

[degenere]

I suppose your refugees stop you and ask you to define 'help' before you give it? Of course they do not. Say no more. This is now an obligation.

[justice_is_blond]

I've no idea what to say to that.

[degenere]

Ah, I will help you with that. In Orlais, where we learn our manners from books and from governesses, you would say: thank you.

[justice_is_blond]

...I'm not entirely certain that's what's called for here.

[degenere]

Not yet, perhaps. But it will be, so you can save yourself the trouble and say it now.

[justice_is_blond]

[He's going to regret this and he knows it.]

Right. ...Thank you.