Griffon gripes

[aventuriere]

FORM: Sending crystal
SENDER: Freddie, Val, and Jehan (your favorites!)
RECIPIENT: Everyone
WHAT: A Griffon Grievance
WHEN: Now
WHERE: Everywhere
NOTES: Can we say a group of griffons is called a grievance? A grievance of griffons?

Inquisition.

[This is Val. Don’t stop listening, his tone is grave and serious, which means what follows will be equally grave and serious.]

When one thinks of the noblest of creatures, beasts of the air, one must first and always think of griffons. The dragon, she has a certain unspeakable loveliness, a loveliness of her form, in all her savage glory, but if the word to meditate upon is nobility, then it is the griffon that comes first to mind. On this, we can all agree, yes?

So, then, tell to me: why complain about the smell? [ Because it is terrible! another accented voice says in the background, muffled. ] Yes, it is a pungent aroma. But nobly so. Less noble and far more worthy of complaint is the habit of the griffon of which books do not speak of: the habit of airborne thievery.

A whole ham, Inquisition.

[ Jeannot—who had his despondent face buried in a pillow, before this point—lifts his head to chime in. ]

A good ham. It tasted of hope. Or I imagine that it must have, before it was swallowed whole by a beast who did not even pause to appreciate it.

We ought to have been warned. And another thing—

And another thing! [ It's Freddie now, talking over Jehan, feel free to begin paying attention again. She sounds incensed, but also like she's probably putting it on a bit. ] Hair ribbons! If the beasts want my last good set of silk hair ribbons I would be more than happy to donate them to the cause of brightening up the horribly dull colors you chose for their tack, but I won't have them eaten! It shows an appalling lack of taste which would never have happened if these fine Orlesian creatures had been properly raised.

Perhaps it is not the tack that is the problem? Perhaps it is the color of the griffons themselves. The horrible grays, and duns - the griffons are surely desperate. I would be. Can you dye the feathers, do you think?

—I was going to say, [ Jehan continues, ] I think we are owed an explanation, as academics, for this reemergence of an extinct species. As well as a new ham. If we are given these things then perhaps we can offer ribbons and dye.

And if we offer these griffons ribbons, and dye, and perhaps the smallest piece of our ham - I will take the cut, my friends - perhaps then the griffons will find themselves more kindly disposed to us. And by us I mean me. [If Val sounds a little sulky, that’s because he is.] What an unkindness. I will stoop to bribery if I must, griffons.

Comments

[alankazam]

Does wine have morality?

[ are we going for a chaotic good red, a true neutral white, what ]

[degenere]

An excellent question. We will need to confer. I would first be moved to answer yes. I have met truly vile wines, mostly of Antivan vintage. This is of little surprise to students of morality: Antiva is a country steeped in immorality, and I say that with truest fondness.

[alankazam]

Wouldn't Tevinter wines be the most base, then? Does that follow? How do you even know where it's from?

[aventuriere]

[ Fear not, boys, a wine expert has arrived. ]

A true connoisseur can determine the origin of most wines by taste alone, but when in doubt I recommend a look at the label.

[ But that helpful pro tip is not really why she's here. ]

As for whether a wine can be moral, that is an interesting question for debate. In so many other respects a wine is like a person, so perhaps in this, too.

[apologist]

I have felt wrong by wine on many occasions, and I do not know if it is possible to be wronged by something amoral. A table does not wrong me, if I walk into it; I wrong myself. But wine—wine wrongs me.

[degenere]

And is morality not so often defined by the consequences of the act? That is part and parcel of its definition. The immorality of wine, the amorality of wine--for these, a case might be stated for each.

Especially the Antivan.