The Inquisition's records regarding what to do with us if we all die are incomplete. Obviously half of you do not have any family—

[ Coming next month: sensitivity training.]

—but if you would like your remains or your belongings handled in a specific way or given to a specific person, there is a form in the Senechal's office. Or I can write it down for you, if you tell me how you would like your mummy dressed.

The deadline is at some point before you die. So you should do it this week.

[ Salvio—poor Salvio—has actually done something to deserve this, and that something was asking Kostos to make this announcement in the first place. ]

Hear ye, hear ye. Bend your ear, fair maids and lads, and all you dissolute dung-heaps who have forsaken your virtue, shame on all of you, for most of you aren't even wed. Don't you know that humping should be only in the service of procreation? Blush, dear slatterns.

[ Oh, Maker, it's this guy. And he sounds happy. Indeed, he's cheerily clearing his throat, and saying - ]

It is I, Byerly Rutyer, here to read you the news of the world. Anyone who tunes me out is, therefore, going to be ill-informed and a disgrace. Your civic duty is to heed me.

First, the news from Nevarra! Oh, this is marvelous. It seems that the King is truly like a piece of cheese left out in cold weather - you know what I'm talking about - you come back after two months and somehow when you cut away the rind it's still edible. What I mean to say is that he's still alive. Rumor on the street is that he died months ago and has been puppeted by those horrifying Nevarran necromancers. What do they call them? Moriteasers? Anyway.

Now, the fair land of Orlais. I have good news and bad news there. First, the bad news: still full of Orlesians. Second, the good - ah, no, sorry, this is actually also bad news. Welcome to the Inquisition, newcomers, it is always thus. It turns out the peasants are revolting - [ A pause, and then - ] Oh, really, someone was supposed to say "what else is new." You're all useless. So - the peasants are revolting - lightly revolting - because as it turns out someone has gotten in their heads and made them forget that their duty is to die on behalf of their betters. Hideous. Was it one of you? You're all bloody halfway to being social revolutionaries yourselves. In any case. In Montsimmard and Verchiel, there have been riots, because the peasants are displeased with the way that they're being arrested when they refuse to fight. They're not being hanged. So touchy. They're also displeased because they're being compensated less when their possessions are seized for the war efforts. Honestly, what value material wealth? Why can't people like that let it go? Why do things matter so much to them?

And now Tevinter. Good news and bad news. Good news, the Tevinters have their own country, and none of us are ever obligated to go there, praise the Maker. Bad news - oh, no, actually this is rather good news. Don't get used to it, newcomers; the Inquisition is rarely thus. The anti-Venatori sorts are refusing to engage with the Venatori, since they suspect the Venatori may have murdered one of their cohort...which is such base slander, honestly, could you imagine a Venatori ever doing something like that? Such sweet, honest folks. The Venatori cry - [ In a bad Tevinter accent mixed with a generic stage-play villain voice: ] "You wretches! You merely wish to delay us in our path to executing our dastardly plan!" To which the others cry - [ Again a Tevinter accent, though this time resonant and heroic - ] "Get fucked!" Vote will happen in Firstfall. We all hold our breath in antici...

[ Loooooong pause. ]

Antiva! Oh, finally, some news that actually matters. Fashion, my dears, we're talking fashion. The look of the season, this season, is black ribbons and teardrop-shaped pearls. Why? Oh, my darlings, in tribute to us. They're weeping symbolically. Not, of course, sending any assistance or resources, but oh, they weep! And also spend. And also turn glorious profit. Turns out certain merchant princes with pearl interests and black-silk interests have been particularly vociferous in reminding their citizens that they should express their sympathies. So if you want to line your pockets, dear ones, ship your black ribbons off to Antiva before Satinalia's end. And be comforted, knowing that they care just enough for it to set a fashion trend.

[ A clap of his hands. ]

Have you news to share? Information for the rank gossip-mongers? We're hungry for it. Oh, feed us. Feed us, please.

You know, I feel it has been too long since I have had a chance to speak with many of you. That is the way when we are all working so much, no? The coming and going makes it so easy to work with people and never truly know them.

( Imagine her, if you will, reclined on a fainting couch, a glass of port lightly held in one hand, a cigarillo balanced between the fingers of the other, and wearing something appropriately luxurious. )

So, I am wondering, what does responsibility mean to you? More what you consider your responsibilities, than the offerings of a dictionary. Understanding one another is key, I hear.

Hello [ a woman's voice, low, with a mostly-Marcher accent. ] My name is Yseult and I will be assisting with leadership of the Hostile Powers project.

Many of you will be tasked with heading into hostile territory in the near future to carry out the Inquisition's work. To assist you in achieving your goals, the leadership and I thought it wise to offer all of you some additional training in skills that may prove useful in fieldwork. The first is construction of a cover identity that you can assume when operating covertly. We would like each of you to construct a cover identity and answer the following questions about it. We can then help you to refine it.

There will be missions that require very particular covers, but many will not, and it is helpful to have a default cover that works in many situations and which you are comfortable with and can fall back on if needed suddenly. Assume in this case that you will be sent on a simple mission to gather general intelligence from a city in Tevinter.

Here are the basic questions you must be prepared to answer if confronted by an enemy patrol or similar:
( Read more... )

[ It's barely been a month since Kostos was an asshole on the crystals. But it's been much longer since he was specifically a Nevarran mage asshole, and the best way to not worry about anybody in Minrathous is clearly to focus on work, so: ]

Does anyone have any dead animals on hand? Recently dead. Preferably small.

[ Typical supply closet stuff. ]

Or any that will die soon.

The next time any of us— [ That isn't an all-inclusive us; he means, specifically, mages and rifters and maybe templars, but everyone can figure that out on their own. Or not. He doesn't care. ] —is in the position to make demands, I think we should make sure we have a say in which rifters go to which Circles. We could pick in turns. Like choosing teams.

[ That's all. ]

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.

[ Kitty's voice is a touch hesitant as she puts out this request: ]

Hullo. I need some clothes. [ And then, a bit more fiercely: ] Clothes that aren't stupid. [ A huff, and then with the strength borne of anger over having to wear clothes made for an office professional: ] I haven't got money to pay now, but I will in the future. Or I've got a bunch of office supplies, and I guess they belong to me or whatever, so I've got the right to barter with 'em.

Anyway, so, I'm a bit tall, and sort of a bit thin, and I'm a girl, thanks, so I don't want anything frumpy or frilly or awful, and I don't want anything weird. Just normal clothes, clothes that'll make me look normal.

[ A beat. ] And a knife, too, I guess. For, erm, eating with. [ She will be using it for stabbing with. Finally: ] Eurgh. This is weird. [ ANYway. A sigh, and with that awkward sign-off, she stops the transmission. ]

I lost a bet. [ Just getting that out of the way now, before anyone thinks that he actually wants to be talking to any of you. ] I have to ask you these survey questions. You will not be able to remember them all, so answer whichever you have something interesting to say about.

[ And you know what's really fun to listen to? Nearly twenty questions read off a sheet of paper, rotely and with barely any inflection, by someone whose combination of Nevarran and Orlesian accent gets more difficult to understand the more annoyed he is. ]

One. The weirdest thing you've eaten here.

Two. The most successful quote, international relation, end quote.

Three. The most impressive thing you've seen. —that is horrifically broad, Nell.

[ From some distance away: ] Your mother is horrifically broad.

Maybe.

Four, the strangest banner or coat of arms or nickname. From a competitor, I assume.

Five, the best one of those things.

Six, the most entertaining failure. From a competitor, I assume again.

Seven. Who do you think will win the Grand Melee, and how much are you willing to wage on it? If it is more than ten sovereigns, please let me know.

Eight. The most drinks you've had in one night this week.

Nine. The Inquisition member most likely to get married here and leave the Inquisition forever.

Ten. Best prize.

Eleven. Best facial hair.

Twelve. The competitor you would prefer to swap bodies with for a—this is stupid.

[ Still over his shoulder somewhere: ] For a day! Come on!

A stupid day. Thirteen, the event you wish had been included.

Fourteen, your best guess as to what made the animals so sticky.

Fifteen. The nation here you would most like to party with.

Sixteen. The nation here most likely to be cheating.

Seventeen. Best muscles.

Eighteen. The event you would have won if it existed.

Nineteen, the combat event animal that likely had the cutest offspring waiting for it at ho— [ Rapidly getting louder: ] Maker's tits, that is not on the list—! And wyverns aren't cute! [ There are sounds of a brief scuffle, and then it cuts off. ]