therookery | open.

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FORM: Sending crystal.
SENDER: Gwenaëlle Vauquelin.
RECIPIENT: Everyone with a crystal.
WHAT: Yo I heard you like books.
WHEN: Current.
WHERE: Kirkwall.
NOTES: I am happy to do action-spam threads here for anyone coming to grab some book.

( Without any fanfare, Gwenaëlle gets briskly to the point: )

To simplify matters, my grandfather purchased for me the contents of the house that I'm currently renting. I've been sorting through the library, such as it is, while I clear the shelves for my own books I anticipate arriving within the month - I don't imagine most of it is going to be pressingly relevant to anyone's research, but the social and military histories, as well as the etiquette books, might come in useful for our tame demons as they adapt.

( Are we not calling the rifters that. Thranduil literally lives with her now, why is she like this. )

Some of the academics look curious. In any case, I am having the lot of it boxed up. It's all quite clearly labeled and inventoried. If anyone wishes to come and collect it for the Inquisition's library, or sift through and see if there's anything of interest, you've until the end of the week and after that it's being donated to the Chantry.

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[Did someone say 'Free Books'??? UP AND AT 'EM!]

I'll take them. Under normal circumstances I would offer you coin for a fair exchange, but [and he is loathe to offer this in fear of his precious time being consumed in wasteful ways,] I'm willing to provide a small token of appreciation. [Flippantly, by way of explanation,] A charm or a wizard's brief service or whatnot.

( drolly; )

People don't typically pay for charity. You can take whatever of the collection you can transport.

[One can practically hear the silent groan at the sound of 'charity.' His entire childhood was practically a show of charity. He's had enough of that for his lifetime.

... But then again he isn't going to give up the prospect of All The Reading Material in his knowledge-thirsty hands, so with a nearly indiscernible grumble, he resumes,]

Fine. I'll carry them. [And he means it, even if it drains every last bit of energy out of him for the rest of the day, so help him. Even if it takes him multiple trips, begrudgingly. Though that certainly won't stop others from popping in and grabbing a bunch while he's traveling to and fro.] Have them arranged for pick-up immediately. Where will I find the home?

Edited 2017-07-25 02:34 (UTC)

They'll all be boxed within the week. You'll have to make several trips.

( If it sounds like she might be filing her nails, unmoved, that is an entirely correct impression. )

Inquisition records ought to have directions. Lady Vauquelin in Hightown.

[Well, that is a part of town that he hasn't visited yet. At all. Though it does spark a memory of a map of Kirkwall he examined recently. Hightown is appropriately named, he recalls, for the aristocrats of the realm. Perhaps he should prepare himself for a true 'library' and not a pitiful excuse for one. It instigates a frown out of him, though his voice remains stiff.]

So be it. I'll send for a cart to accompany me, if possible.

Wonderful. Who shall I say we're expecting?

( At least he's unlikely to be a warden. He said 'wizard', he's almost certainly a rifter. )

The Dragon. I'll make myself obvious.

( Andraste give her strength. There's a brief flurry of just-within-earshot conversation - a young boy's indistinct voice, and more clearly the lady herself, saying He's not a real dragon, sweetheart, before: )

I imagine you'll be hard to miss.

( Dryly. )

[He gets the distinct impression there's some mockery in that dry tone. Uncalled for, considering he had given her what was requested.]

No, I'm not a real Dragon, [he affirms with a sour edge] but it is my name.

I'm on my way.

[But first to the Inquisition records for that address. Lady Vauquelin, Hightown.......]

You either had very ambitious or very unkind parents.

( It absolutely could be both. She sounds upbeat, however, because she is the worst. )

You'll be expected.

( It won't be hard to get her address; once it's been quickly verified that his business there is above-board, it can be readily provided, directing him to a secluded home in the aristocratic district, gated and obscured from the road. )

[Actually, neither of those guesses are correct, Gwen. His parents are meaningless to him as he was removed from the streets as a beggar-child at the age of three.... after accidentally setting his hometown ablaze with uncontrolled magic. His name came about after he passed the royal wizard trials, magically bestowed upon him by ceremony. His name chose him; no one chose his name for him.

But regardless he does not snap back because he has already set forth to gather what he needs to make the trip to Lady Vauquelin's Hightown home.

When he arrives at the manor's doorstep a handful of hours later, he ensures that he is dressed his very best in rich reds and blacks, his cloak and breast embroidered in silver threads with a stylized crest of a western-style dragon. Even his dark red boots are made of intricately tooled leather. At his back is a horse and a modest cart, which... well, he had to trade for with a magely service or two, to say the least. He takes a moment to admire the intricate beauty of the home's architecture, a thin grin on his face, before racing a gloved fist and knocking at the gorgeous gold-and-black doors.]

( A benefit of the layout of the property is that it's easy to see visitors coming; Sarkan is expected by the time he arrives and his hand has scarcely touched the door before it opens, a uniformed footman in the lady's service ushering him within. An increasingly Orlesian household, it is rather more understated and tasteful than some of its counterparts -

as is its mistress, dismissing her servants with a gesture as she comes down the stairs, still dressed for practise in slim-fit trousers, lightweight blouse and tight vest, thick hair braided tightly down her back.

See, Wren, she might not like the tasks she's been set but she does work at it. )

You'll be the dragon.

( Drolly. She has a 6'6" attitude in a 5'3" frame, this one. )

Follow me.

[Definitely an aristocrat, with all the disdain that comes with lifelong privilege. Perhaps a slightly unusual one in her trousers and blouse rather than a dress, but the behavior and home all line up. The Dragon knows such people well, familiar with court politics as he is. At his age it just rolls right off his back with little more than a cynical, arched brow.

Didn't he say he'd make himself obvious?]

Yes, let's get this done quickly, [meeting her imperiousness with his own. He has work to do, too, getting up to speed before too long has passed. He sweeps after her lead.]

( It rolls off unnoticed, in the way of people who are just used to that; Gwenaëlle isn't, particularly, a creature of the court suited to that life or generally interested in engaging in its habits. The problem, historically, has been that she's never had anything else to do or be--

but then the anchor-shard in her hand that matches his own chained her to the Inquisition, and necessity is the mother of invention.

The double doors she opens lead into a split-story library that looks set to become, when she's finished remaking it in her own image, the beating heart of her home; row upon row of shelves in the process of being emptied, an enormous fireplace set below twinned staircases with a generous seating and working area. Portraits that have been taken down are leaned against the wall, half-covered by fabric; above the fireplace hangs an image of the lady herself, recognisable in the profile of her face tilted back over her shoulder and -

er.

Well, it's a back view, but the portrait is a full length, faithfully reproduced nude - it had been completed before her tangle with the rage demon, but Gwenaëlle had posed a second time, and the scars have been added in, claw-marks scored into her skin, slashing up the back of one thigh and winding vicious around her hip and waist. If she weren't wearing a blouse buttoned to her throat, they'd be visible at her decolletage now to see just how far they go on the other side.

She does not seem to find this unusual or worthy of comment. Servants bustle, but they have other tasks to complete as well as emptying out her library; the work is steady, but it won't be completed in a day. A week might even be ambitious. She's probably hoping some of the people who come to collect will make themselves useful and speed the process. )

Take what you like. I'll not be setting anything aside; if someone else comes to take it in between times, that's life.

Edited (sarkan's not a girl ) 2017-07-27 12:19 (UTC)

[Whatever, it's not like Sarkan has never seen a naked women (or a few) in his 150 years of life. The most that gets from him is a quick glance, an absent-minded silent thought that at least she is a handsome woman, a mild note about her interesting scar and that is that. Not his monkeys, not his circus. She can hang any manner of portrait she pleases in her own home.

He shrugs off her dismissiveness and steps into the library with an appreciative glance around the enormous rows of shelves and partially-packed tomes, all in varying states of disarray. Sarkan can tell that with love and care, it is a beautiful, comfortable place. Perhaps a bit bright for his taste but he appreciates it. It's a library space vast enough to rival his own in the Tower.]

I told you I'll be quick. You needn't see me again if you don't wish to.

[Sarkan approaches one of the nearest full boxes and helps himself to the inventory list lain on top. He scans an eye down, a few topics and titles catching his eye. Then he sets the list down and starts a round about the main room, repeating the process for each inventory list, quickly owing some attention to the shelves for additional titles and topics.

To his mild disappointment, he could find nothing concerning the Tevinter. Can't say he is surprised but he had hoped some digging would yield something.

When he examined the room to his satisfaction -- in as little time as he could possibly manage despite the vastness of the room -- he positions himself in the center.

Like Hell would he select each and every book by hand. Manual labor is a nuisance that one as skilled as himself shouldn't have to bother. He is willing to waste energy and his precious handful of daily cantrips he has allowed himself since he came to Thedas on this task.]

Tualidetal!

[The summoning spell works like a... well, charm. At his beck and call, books matching the topics that caught his interest fly off the shelves and assemble themselves at his feet. He splays his palms over the piles of books.]

Dual, Dual, Dualidetal!

[The books shudder again, and this time, they arrange themselves into neatly alphabetized-by-author-and-topic stacks. Once finished, Sarkan steps back and eyes them critically. Still a bit more than he can fit in the cart. He kicks his boot down the center of the arranged stacks and again, sweeps his hand across exactly one-half of his selection.]

Tual.

[The books drift up in the air and circle round him, then begin... marching dutifully toward the door, where they will find their new home in his hired cart.

He makes to follow after them, absently squeezing the throbbing shard in his palm with a scowl. Now if only he could do simple tricks like this without a sharp pain-in-the-hand or the inevitable weariness that will come during his ride back to the Gallows...]

( Menial tasks and mages not being particularly high on Gwenaëlle's priorities on an ordinary day, she doesn't linger while he's about it - servants come in and out, and he's never left alone in the library, but if he's going about it in a peculiar way then he is at least doing only what he's been told he's permitted to do. If the servants look askance, if an uneasy murmur of this will filter out of the household and into the rumor mill (rifters; can we really trust them? look what they can do-- how carelessly they use magic--), he is not presently interfered with.

Still, when he's done - informed that the cart was moved to the tradesmen's entrance and directing him accordingly by the steward - Gwenaëlle emerges from a side room before he's quite ushered out, bound papers in her hand. Only slightly obscured by her fingers is her own face in sketch form, because pretty girls sell in any world, and the title On the Inquisition; A Lady's Observations.

She holds it out to him. )

I've been informed some rifters found my early writings on the Inquisition useful to them.

( He can do with that what he will. )

[Though Sarkan is dimly aware of the distrust, the uneasy glances, the wide berth the servants grant him as he goes about his absolutely mundane and menial magic to 'clean up and clear out,' it does not yet dawn on him that it is distinctly because of his nature as a rifter, a stranger, to Thedas. He is a man absolutely accustomed to social isolation and inherent wariness of his exceptional skills. He has noticed by now that profligate (and the definition of 'profligate' is certainly less forgiving here than in Polnya) magic use disconcerts the locals and townsfolk more than it should, if it were up to his opinion. It certainly has not occurred to him that he is mistrusted as a possible variation of the demons that wanted him dead fresh out of the rift.

Sarkan pauses in his hasty exit to cast a brief glance at the stack of bound papers. It does not take him long to accept them.]

And did you write as a member of the Inquisition or as an outsider?

Edited 2017-07-30 13:58 (UTC)

I'm not a member of the Inquisition.

( Fewer people have had to be pointedly reminded of that fact, now that she has a separate residence and is no longer obliged by location (Skyhold) or political necessity (Kirkwall) to abide under their roof, but it's certainly been a point of contention before - what she can and cannot be forced to do, what she must be asked to do, what she says no to.

She sees no contradiction in her refusal to join the organisation and her support of it, her insistence that rifters must if they wish to be respected - she isn't one, she has nothing to prove. The Inquisition is a flawed, frustrating behemoth with many heads, but it's also the only organisation working to prevent hell on earth, so in the absence of a better option, everyone should be supporting it.

Behind her, a tall shepherd dog pads slowly down the stairs to find her side; sufficiently accustomed that he doesn't startle when it's the hand with its dull green glow that finds his head and scratches his ear absently. )

I wrote as a private citizen with a unique opportunity to observe.

Edited 2017-07-31 01:31 (UTC)

[The Dragon's eyes do catch the soft green glow reflecting off her hand, and he openly allows his gaze to stray, considering. He is reminded of the dull throb embedded in his own fist, exacerbated after his mild use of magic tricks.

If he draws any conclusions about it, though, he doesn't voice them.]

Excellent. I wanted that perspective. Insider writings smack somewhat of propaganda.

[Though Sarkan is inclined to believe that the Inquisition is there for the people's best interests -- they let him walk reasonably free, after all the reasons they could dream up to mistrust him or consider him too dangerous for autonomy -- it is nice to have a mildly more objective slant to inform his overall opinion of the local monolithic authority.

He opens his cloak and tucks the sheafs of paper into a deep, large hidden pocket. He again turns to the exit, ready to relieve Gwen of his presence.]

I may be back for more. Most likely I won't, so don't bother to expect me.

Edited 2017-07-31 19:38 (UTC)

( Her laugh is genuine, if short; dryly, she says, )

Of course it's fucking propaganda.

( The answer to 'is he new' is absolutely yes, to be fair. )

If you want the voice of someone without a vested interest in the success of the only organisation doing anything about the madman trying to rip apart the world to remake it in his own image, they're in short supply and the rest of us aren't stupid enough to be publishing anything that isn't an effort to remind all the incompetently selfish politicians of the world who think that their civil wars and meaningless wrangling are going to matter if the world ends that it won't.

( Her objective opinion. The Inquisition would love to be a monolithic authority, but the fact is that everything is an uphill battle and it's so frustrating it sickens her -

But that will be apparent by the time he gets to the last piece she deigned to publish. )

It wasn't intended for rifters or for people here - it was intended to remind people they have a stake in this world and they aren't helpless. It'll give you an idea of what you've walked into, that's all.

( It's not hostile - he'd know if she were, she's not a shy girl as may be clear enough - but it is frank. )

An idea about what I've walked into! How novel. I'm absolutely gobsmacked by the possibility of a looming doomsday, [the Dragon bites in minor annoyance. As if it's obvious he's dealt with this shit before. No, of course it isn't, but he's perpetually obtuse about conveying his side of the story.] What the devil is the difference between court politics and civil wars in one nation compared to another? Mankind's pathetic nature isn't any different here than in my realm. Or dwarfkind, or elfkind, whatever civilizations carry on here.

And don't you give it another thought: I'm not going to exacerbate any civil wars or stroke any politicians' egos. If those pompous blowhards want to throw armies at each other, that's their sword to fall on, blood on their witless and careless hands. [A deep sigh. He adds heavily, demonstrating that he definitely holds more than a small notion of the gravity of Thedas's problems, if not its minute details,] The Inquisition did a fair job of giving me the basics about rifters and Blight when I arrived. Civil wars are a monstrous distraction that works in real evil's favor. If the Inquisition is at the head of efforts to spare this realm from getting swallowed up by corruption and meaningless wars, then of course I've got skills to aid them. I'm not stupid.

( In the same matter of fact tone, )

What you are right now is a waste of limited resources.

( It's nothing personal; it's just the situation that they're in. The Inquisition can't let people like him run around unchecked which means housing and dealing with them itself - which has its drawbacks. )

I'm very glad - ( genuinely, she's not being snide, ) - to hear that that isn't what you intend to remain.

[Oh, whatever, bitch--though in reality he is torn between respecting this confident, recalcitrant woman and feeling slightly miffed. Either way, the Dragon does not feel the need to prove a damn thing. His merits will make themselves apparent soon enough, and he is certain of that.]

Indeed, as soon as I educate myself thoroughly. [While also slipping himself into the Research Division and making himself useful there. May as well kill two birds with one stone. He is not a warm man by nature, but he meets her even tone with a calm, matter-of-fact clip in kind.] Plenty of work to be done and too much time wasted.

[He turns, takes a sweeping step toward the exit, and ... pauses. He thrusts a flippant hand toward the piles of books he organized and left behind. He snorts,]

You're welcome, by the way.

[And out he goes.]

Edited 2017-08-01 00:14 (UTC)

( She's already walking away before he turns back, which has the side effect of meaning she mostly misses his dramatic exit. She hears it, quirking some amusement at the corner of her mouth, but doesn't dignify him with her attention or acknowledgment.

The kitchen he has to walk past the wide doors to, down that hallway to the tradesmen's exit, does net him some curious looks as he passes, though. )

[Yep, he's in some Twilight Zone comedy hour. Dramatic exists are severely dampened by long walks and gawking, cringing servants. It's ok, he'll just cast every inconvenient, hapless body with a dour, vexed look as he makes his way out.]

Edited 2017-08-01 00:58 (UTC)

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