faderift | Would you like my mask? Would you like my mirror?

Of all the diplomats Pel expected to be assigned to this, a rifter was not one. She has been assured of Tyrion's qualifications, but not necessarily reassured. Well, this is his chance. Some people have particular talents they bring, and maybe this dw--small human is such a good diplomat and a quick study that he can negotiate between two nations of a world he was not part of before.

So she drives the small cart--a feat rather easier than riding a horse at this point, with her being seven months pregnant--and feels no need, for some time, to scrape together any small talk. Until she remembers the little redheaded girl.

"Are you..." what was her name? "...Sansa's husband?"

Tyrion, for his part, is doing one half of what Tyrion Lannister does best (now that he is not getting drunk every night, or whoring besides). He is reading up on Kal-sharok in the front of the small cart, skimming between at least two other scrolls dealing with dwarven culture. He himself would not be considered part of the ...castes, and if he was he would be considered one of the branded fellows - no Stone Sense, so he should keep away from that particular connection.

Focus on the Inquisition, what they are doing to fight Corypheus directly and -

"Hm?" The elf he was travelling with - he was still trying to figure out what made elves different than normal people outside of being shorter and having pointy ears - had spoken and he tilted his chin up to give her his full attention. She was, after all, the leader of their little expedition. "Ah! Yes I am. I was not aware you knew my wife. Has she made something for you or your future child?"

So far, she has liked Tyrion. He doesn't talk unnecessarily, and he reads all the time. The ideal person, as far as she is concerned. She flashes a faint smile.

"Just conversation. I was knitting baby things, she was embroidering something for you. Stop that."

The last two words are not directed at Tyrion, but at a hyperactive child kicking her hard in a rib, evidenced by her putting a hand to her side and pushing the offending leg into a new position.

Tyrion's smile tilted at the corners, as he considered just what Sansa might have been embroidering, "These days I have started to expect that she is going to start embroidering the seats of my trousers. Still, she has a beautiful hand with the needle ... so it is an excellent trade-off to be so turned out."

He frowned a little as the baby kicked the elven woman - Pel? Pel - so hard she had to shift. "Are you certain you wouldn't like me to drive for awhile? That cannot be comfortable." Again that sly smile, "Especially if that baby kicks us off the side of the road."

Pel shakes her head, turning her eyes back to the road. "I like driving. It helps me think. Anyway, I'd get bored, since I can't read while the cart's moving or I'll get ill."

Most mothers, she has heard, get past the morning sickness after the first few months. She is not most mothers.

She gives him a sidelong glance before looking back to the road. "Do dwarves in your world have their own nations?"

He nodded, and started to organize the scrolls back into his bag, since Pel seemed like she wanted to talk, perhaps give her mind another thing to focus on. "Then I shall put my chivalry to fuck off, as the phrase goes."

A pause, before his smile turned wry, "No. Unless you mean are most of my kith a nation of fools and half-wits, then I shall change that to maybe. Mostly - it is considered a deformity and no birthright to want. I was fortunate - or less fortunate depending on your point of view - to be born into nobility -- and to have enough genius to realize I was going to have to be good at something outside of juggling."

He patted his two bags of books, "Hence, vigorous education."

That takes a moment to absorb. A deformity, like cat's mouth, rather than a race of people. It must be very strange for him to come to a world like this one, where such traits set people apart so much.

She shrugs.

"'Dwarf' is a synonym for 'clown' the way 'elf' is for 'servant,' then. Freaks get turned into buffoons here as well. I guess everyone makes the best of what they have. Being born a noble, though--I'm sort of surprised you weren't abandoned or drowned. It's no wonder you study so much. It's the same reason I do."

He nodded his head, "We call them fools where we come from - but yes - precisely that." He frowned faintly at the thought that all elves were thought of as servants -- all the elves he had met had been extraordinary in some way. Of course, he only knew -- three? Three, and they were all mages.

Now that smile turned bitter, "I nearly was. Yet I was the only thing left of my mother so ... my father decided not to drown me in the ocean." He tips his head, slightly, stroking his beard, "... That might be the only thing I can be grateful to him for."

A faint look of revulsion. "Why? Because you were a keepsake to him rather than being his son? Save your gratitude for the people who do something gratifying. It takes absolutely no effort to not kill you."

"Oh, I don't know. I'm rather hard to kill these days." Tyrion stated with a completely straight face, before one corner of his mouth lifted, "However, your point is a good one. I shall remember that if I ever find myself getting overly sentimental."

A faint smile. That causes some silence for a while on the road, until she realizes she has another question to ask him.

"So was diplomacy something you were taught, or something you had to teach yourself?"

He is reading over one of the scrolls again in the silence, leaning back as much as he can in the seat to make himself comfortable. Long trips are never good for his short legs when he can't stretch them out every once and awhile.

Her question made him look up, his mouth twisting, "The art of manipulation - I learned at my father's desk. The finer touch, the lighter swing, using honey instead of a blunt weapon? Words instead of swords? I taught myself."

"So...yes, you taught yourself diplomacy." Intimidation is just a tool, not the whole story. "Words instead of swords, I'll have to remember that one. I think words have benefited my people more. It's why I write so much."

"Considering my family's way of doing things ... it was the smartest road towards survival." His tone was dry, but softened as he looked at her, "Swords can only end up in blood, and death. Words can get you there as well -- but for the most part - all they do is open opportunities. I ... have been given to understand that your own people struggle with needing opportunities?"

"My people have a great many more opportunities than they think they have," Pel says bluntly. "Most of them are more concerned with licking their own wounds if they're Dalish, or day-to-day survival if they're not. I'm a published author. No human stores will sell my books, but they're there. The Inquisition is a million opportunities rolled into one. I'm a researcher, not a servant. I've lived free my whole life and I'm still free. Opportunity is where you take it."

One corner of his mouth lifted, and he nodded his head slowly, "A woman after my own heart. There is always another angle, if one is willing to take the time to look for it." He looked out to the road thoughtfully, before he stated frankly, "To be sure - those whom are oppressed do not always look up to see. But that is why the world has people like you. So they have something to compare their lives to."

The other corner lifted into a whimsical smile, "And I can assure you - we can all change for the better. I am living proof."

Pel has a swell of affection, like she wants to get drunk with this man and sing songs and do stupid shit like stealing chickens for the laughs. She wants to have every conversation both inane and intelligent. She wants to write books with him and read books with him and make rude gestures at the Chantry with him.

The next smile is real, though like all her smiles, she suppresses it as best she can. "Good fortune for all of us that you came here instead of languishing in your own world. Nobody expects you to be tall to be listened to."

One day Pel will find out, much to her motherly regret, that Tyrion is capable and willing to do all these things. Especially the getting drunk and probably drinking her under the table part. He is an expert in the ways of wine and ale.

Ah, he sees that smile, Pel, but his is twisted into a faint smirk, "I should certainly hope not. I haven't got any plans to see if I could change that through what is considering Highly Questionable Means with Blades and Blood and possibly Babies."

Would you like my mask? Would you like my mirror?

The Journey There

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