Inquisition.

[The voice is hard to place, neither male nor female, lingering oddly over the syllables of the word--considering. An Inquisition, proper noun. What a thing.]

Your cities are infested with beasts. You keep them in comfort and guard jealously their welfare. A caste among you even exists to care for them.

Explain this.

Oh, colleagues, friends. Esteemed Inquisition members and orbiting loiterers. I have a question for you; a matter of function and form.

And napkins.

And delicate masculinity, imperiled by investment in attire. Finch and I have been discussing a deeply controversial topic, one that I fear may chill you all to the core. This could be what strengthens the Inquisition and brings us together as an effective force to defeat the evils of this world, or could see us forever divided and scattered to the winds of uncertainty.

( Aghast: ) It’s not del — how’s it delicate not wanting to sew a bib on half your chest? Can’t be the Banns actually dress like this. Not dribbling on themselves. They’ve got, I don’t know, servants for that.

(She sounds concerned. )

Have you been recently dribbled on?

( Not that concerned, though. ) Moving on— ruffles, Inquisition. Serah Finch asserts that there is never time or place for tasteful ruffles, which I must add, do not resemble bibs.

I washed it! That’s the point!

( Dribbling. )

Look. You’re all — ( Insane? But you can’t say that out loud. ) — Worldly, how long do you reckon we’ve got before someone catches their fancy sleeves on fire?

( Quietly, ) I think perhaps you missed a spot, there’s a little something—

( And perhaps it is possible to imagine her leaning over to (pretend to?) wipe something off his face. )

( The scuffling thump of someone toppling abruptly off a horse. )

Material properly fashioned - whether in ruffles or drapery or whatever fine form it may take - is not an inherent fire hazard. Competence and poise are key.

( Helpfully, ) And they might cushion your fall, sometimes. A thought for next time.

[ Here d'Artagnan is, seated on one of the long tables used for dining at the docks in Kirkwall. He's trying to look like it's very normal to talk into a crystal. ]

Hello. I'm d'Artagnan, recently of the Forces Division, originally of the King's Musketeers of Paris, which makes me what you call a rifter, I suppose, although I'll say I'm not fond of that title.

[ And with introductions out of the way… ]

I know that phylacteries is the word of the day. [ And check it out! He pronounced that with almost no problem at all. He maybe stumbled over the middle section, but surely no one will notice. Anyway: ] I'll be honest: I don't know what that is. From all of your reactions, I doubt it's anything I'd like. If you can explain it to me without starting another war over it, I'd owe you a debt.

[ Not that you're not all lovely people. But with that unhappy admission of ignorance out of the way, let him just segue straight into what he is actually good at. So… ]

The Tourney, on the other hand. You, my friends, shall have my sword, and I'll challenge any one of you to meet me on that field. My King is not protected by Knights, but by Musketeers, so when the games come, I will fight for the garrison, and my brothers. Who among you will attend?

Good morrow, Inquisition.

( Herian always sounds even and controlled. It's her own personal cliche, on par with "it was a dark and stormy night." Now, however, it takes on a new dimension, a suggestion of flatness that could be tiredness, or could be... something else. )

I bring good tidings. Though there were those who felt the loss of the Hightown forest keenly, the fire cleared the way for work to begin on the memorial, the progress of which had been stymied for some time. Working with a committee of Kirkwallers, the families of the lost and survivors, and members of the Chantry, the Chantry Relations project and the Inquisition has aided with the design and construction of the memorial gardens. The gardens were designed as a place of reflection and to commemorate all those who lost their lives in the Chantry explosion of the thirty-seventh year of the Dragon Age, and its aftermath. However... as a place of peace for all those who have lost people and who seek succour, all are welcome.

It would be remiss to speak of the memorial gardens without acknowledging, in particular, the work of Siuona and Nahariel of Clan Dahlasanor. For all that feeling was much divided on it, the current growth and fertility of the gardens would have been impossible without the efforts and Sina and those who aided her in raising the forest. It was their shared vision of a peaceful place for the coming together of people in remembrance that allowed Andraste's Grove to come into being, and Narahiel's work that gave us the statue that has become an icon for so many. Though the fire destroyed much, all that survived it - the trees, the flowers, the ground of that grove as well as the statue of Andraste - are sacred. It has become a place of peace, and of pilgrimage. Knowing all the injuries that the Chantry has inflicted in the past, it seems... it seems all the more fitting that a place of healing and reconciliation be the result of Dalish idealism.

( Her own feelings on the Dalish are not warm, or perhaps much better than frosty, but her sentiment is genuine.

There follows a bit of a pause. )

I hope that... even with all the adversity that faces us now, new challenges arising alongside the old, that when it comes to protecting this world and standing against Corypheus, we can do so together. That... that animosity might be saved for those who stand as a threat to us all, and that breaches between us, allies even when it be... through circumstance rather than choice, might be settled peacefully whenever possible.

Easy words to say, I know, and I cannot claim that I have stood by that ideal anywhere near so well as I ought in times past. I wish to do better, on that count. If you should wish to find me, I am most often in the Chantry Relations office. Doubtless there is much to discuss, in light of recent developments and proposals.

This place reminds me of Drakenborg. [ Iorveth’s voice comes from the sending crystals, almost up-beat, and if you’ve spoken to Iorveth for all of five seconds before, you should know that’s Not Quite Right. But he seems casual and chilled out enough, so all well. ] It was a castle once, under a different name and a different people, then a fortress, likely named by nobles that wouldn't know a dragon if it bit them on the ass, then it endured as a shelter through two gruesome wars. Then, finally, a death camp.

[ yeah, so maybe not a cheerful talk, but his tone is even and relaxed enough. Still, you might start to guess that he isn’t complimenting the Gallows here. He goes on like it’s idle chit-chat, just swapping cute stories. ] ‘Subversive elements’, they’d say, but it was mostly Scoia’tael, and any other elves or nonhumans that breathed the wrong way at the wrong time.

[ The crunch of something that’s probably an apple sounds, and it’s followed by a stuttered laugh, muffled slightly because he’s definitely talking with his mouth full. ] Kind of a funny place, really. At night, you’d hear the prisoners in the death cell singing ‘The Hymn of the Joyful’, and they'd pick it up, all through the rest of the dungeon. You could almost bloody dance to it, if you weren’t chained to the walls, starved, half your bones broken and half your blood missing. We sung it in our own tongue, of course, but translated, it's... [ A pause, Iorveth’s voice trailing off pensively while he’s thinking of the best way to translate it to Common. He doesn’t sing it, because no one wants to hear his singing voice, it belongs in a freaking dungeon. Rather, he recites it like a poem: ]

"The hanged people dance on the ropes, rhythmically writhing in spasms. Sing your song with melancholic emotion, to amuse the joyful. Each of the dead remember, when their feet left the stool, and their eyes popped out of their sockets. Dance on the hanging ropes, happily writhe in spasms. And the wind carries their songs, the ringing chorus all around." [ It really doesn’t sound that joyful when it's not being sung. Or when one actually know what the words mean. ]

Good song, better with the tune to it. Too bad the man who wrote it was set aflame and quartered. Would’ve made a great bard. [ A short, sigh, lamenting opportunities lost. That’s rough, buddy. Humming, he takes a short pause, before adding on like an afterthought - ] Makes me wonder if your alienages here have any ditties like it.

[ Is he suggesting the alienages are glorified death camps? Maaaybe. Let’s talk morbid songs, friends. Or whatever, he's not picky, just shooting the shit, but Iorveth is allergic to small talk, so you end up with crap like this. If you happen to be looking for him, he’ll be sat or crouched up on top of a building somewhere, probably, or on a wall, munching at some fruit and peering over the courtyard, looking like an overgrown monkey-child. ]

Good morning, Inquisition. I am happy to report that the Committee have selected a design for the memorial gardens, with some modifications to make it as precisely to their satisfaction as possible, and we have progressed to its construction and landscaping.

For those Rifters freshly arrived who I have not yet had the pleasure of speaking with, my name is Knight-Enchanter Herian Amsel, and I presently serve as head of the Chantry Relations project. If there are any matters that I meant lend assistance with, or matters you require clarity on, please do not hesitate to speak with me. I am oft located in the Chantry Relations office within the former Templar tower of the Gallows, but so too can I be contacted by crystal. I am afraid what I have to speak of next may be a matter of some confusion without context.

What I wish to speak of are the Dissonant Verses. I imagine the name may be unfamiliar to most; they are not well known even amongst the faithful. They are the Canticle of Silence, the Canticle of Maferath, and the Canticle of Shartan. It is the last with which I am most concerned, this day.

Shartan the Liberator was an elf who fought alongside the Blessed Andraste, when they rebelled against the Tevinter Imperium. He was leader to the elven slaves who joined her numbers, and an essential force of her cause. When Andraste was sent to the pyre and the flames rose about her, Shartan and the elves set themselves upon the pyre in a desperate attempt to save her, but all of them were slain.

In recognition of their heroism and sacrifice, the elves were rewarded with a new homeland in the Dales, but when... with the Exalted March on the Dales in the Glory Age, Shartan's verses were removed from the Chant and deemed heretical. They were published in the New Cumberland Chant of Light six years ago, but their inclusion remains controversial, and given Divine Justinia's death, there is no guarantee that it will kept in future editions of the Chant, or even acknowledged.

I would be... interested in hearing your thoughts and feelings on the matter of the Chant of Light and the Canticle of Shartan, to gauge the Inquisition's general sentiments on this matter.

I'm not actually walking across Ferelden again, because I'm not allowed to be in Ferelden, but if I were, you know, I think I would deserve some kind of medal. The Medal of Trudging. Awarded for walking clear across a country way too many times.

Anyway.

[ Anyway. The unspoken point is that he is bored, and it's time for a game. ]

Would you rather— [ continued in comments for organization's sake. ]

Forgive me the whimsical nature of the topic, if you would, Inquisition.

I—

( I would rather ignore this topic forever and pretend Alistair said nothing, but it's too late for that. )

I wondered if any of you might be familiar with the works of Jules Palourde. A series has been... recommended as something that might be of interest, but I've my doubts about the source of the recommendation. ( ALISTAIR. WARDEN. )

Any insights that might be offered about the Knight's Code series would be greatly appreciated. You've my thanks in advance.

So, ah,

Anyone reckon they know how to get blue out of things?