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WHO: Val de Foncé & Iron Bull
WHAT: a cultural exchange
WHEN: backdated slightly, following a conversation
WHERE: Herald's Rest
NOTES: n/a (probably)

A scholar is a man ever in pursuit of new knowledge and experience, especially the experience that he has not pursued before. Not just a man who sits in libraries, counting his days by the number of pages that he turns and the dust that he inhales. Not just a man who writes with ink and parchment. To write, you must first experience. You must live.

Which is why Val would be no scholar at all, in truth, if he did not take this opportunity. To learn of Par Vollen, to learn of the mysteries. To drink of this alcohol as of yet untasted. What man would reject such experiences?

A man so well traveled and often (occasionally) well-financed has much to offer in exchange for such riches of experience. That is why Val goes to the Herald's Rest, alone and untroubled, with full promise to tell Freddie and Jeannot all that he learns and knows, to bring back whatever he can for them, to share this experience in full.

It is not difficult to find this Iron Bull. Herald's Rest is only so large, and he is-- also so large. Val approaches without hesitation or preamble, but for a hand he lays politely against his chest. It isn't quite a bow, only a slight incline, forward.

"Monsieur. To meet is my good pleasure. To make this exchange and learn of these new things--a greater pleasure still." Heavily Orlesian, in case anyone was in doubt over who approaches. Over his chest lies the strap of a leather satchel, which he carries at his side. It does not look very full. "I am Valentine de Foncé. And here in Skyhold, I would say that your reputation proceeds you, my friend. In a good way."

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"Uh huh."

Bull, meanwhile, regards him with a steady eye, slouched back in his favorite chair to observe the goings-on of the tavern in. He'd seen Val coming -- though he'd doubt subtlety was anywhere in this guy's vocabulary -- and by the time he was finished talking, Bull was already gesturing a scarred hand towards one of the nearby chairs.

"You're a de Foncé? That makes sense. Got a bit of a reputation yourselves."

And Val, specifically. All the grace of a pebble falling into a pond, and just as many ripples wherever he went.

Nearby, on a table resting at Bull's elbow, Val could very likely seen the worn cask sitting at the ready, still corked.

There are nearly any combination of words preferable to the words of recognition. The de Foncé recognition, anyways. To be recognized by his own merits is one thing. To be recognized in loose conjunction--

"I have often considered changing my surname," he confesses, dryly, as he pulls out the indicated chair, "but I cannot decide to what I would change it. Perhaps I will lop it off entirely, and be only Val."

The sight of the cask brightens him right up again. With great care, Val tugs at the strap of the satchel and lifts it off of his shoulder, to lay it with reverential grace upon the tabletop.

"It is, after all, by my own merit and cleverness that I am here. With help only from two friends. That same merit and cleverness is what won this." He pats the side of the satchel. "It will be worth your time, my friend."

Hm. Well that's an interesting thing to note. But he doesn't comment on it, not immediately, letting his attention apparently be drawn to the satchel that much ado is being made of. Bull finds the corner of his lips curving upwards in vague amusement.

"Guess we're gonna find out. Let's see, then."

One broad hand lifts, gesturing to the satchel. Open it up, then. He's obviously got a penchant for showmanship. And after nearly getting two of his fingers melted off, he's gotten a lot more cautious about what he opens up by hand.

Nothing personal.

No personal affront taken. Val presses his hand to his heart again and does the briefest and slightest of seated bows. Good manners.

Then, with great ceremony, he reaches to undo the straps of the satchel. Tugs it open, with aplomb. Reaches in and pulls out--

A silk stocking.

Which he lays on the bag, carefully. Fine embroidery runs along the mouth of the stocking, small flowers picked out in minuscule blue stitches. It is a very nice silk stocking, to be sure, but it is still a stocking, and yet Val sits back with the greatest satisfaction, as if to say, yes, this is it, feast your eyes.

Rather than scoff at the stocking, Bull raises an eyebrow. "May I?" he inquires, before reaching delicately for the stocking. More carefully than one might expect, in fact.

Fine thread, that color blue...definitely someone with coin. That type of flower? Maybe there's still a scent to it. Obviously, it belonged to someone of note. Val doesn't seem mad, just very proud, and there's bound to be a reason for that.

Devil's in the details, as they say.

"By all means," Val allows, with a gracious wave. To Bull's credit, he handles the precious stocking accordingly, with grace and great reverence. Even in his large hands, the stocking is well-handled. Surprising to some, perhaps, but to Val it only warms his heart. And so, too, does this deems him worthy, and so Val leans forward to elucidate on the item:

"You will have guessed, of course, that this stocking is no ordinary stocking. It is one of a pair. And the pair themselves were stolen--but not from any ordinary wash. This pair of stockings belonged to the Empress herself."

A pause, so that truth might be given proper gravitas.

"Stolen, in a feat of daring, to both impress and to terrify students of the University of Orlais. The culprits--" A modest gesture toward himself. "--were never caught. And now these stockings are used as bags in which small cheeses are stored. You have only one, you will note. This is because its mate is the object of sincerest affection of a small exotic creature that will not surrender it, not even to me."

Blue flowers. Course it was Celene's. Nothing in Orlais didn't come with some hidden meaning, some mark of ownership. Right down to those dumb masks they insisted on.

Bull doesn't look surprised when he finds out the origin of the stocking, but he does look mildly impressed for a moment. "Heh. Stealing underthings from royalty? Didn't realize Orlais had gotten exciting while I was gone," he huffs, leaning back in his seat, the stocking still dangling from his fingers.

"To the contrary: Orlais is very exciting."

Though after a moment of thought, Val adds, fairly, "Depending on the part of Orlais that you are in, of course. Do I find every last masked ball and political intrigue thrilling? No. But there is no country without its merits, except perhaps Ferelden, but we will forgive Ferelden on virtue of it being, well." A gesture, encompassing. "Ferelden. And besides, it is not every man of Orlais who can boast of owning such a prize as you hold. Perhaps you were in the wrong company, in Orlais. We were always very exciting, and excited."

For all that the stocking is a thin weave in the possession of large hands, capable of brutality simply by accident, it is a hardy item--but he does give it a brief glance to assure himself of its safety. A glance that lingers.

"See that you take care, my friend," he instructs, unable to help himself. "It is one of our most precious items. Are you satisfied with this item? Because then I believe it is your turn, in this exchange."

Bull hums, before offering the stocking back, to be slipped inside that protective satchel once more. If it's what he says it is, and it very well could be, it's better to keep it out of harm's way.

"Think that's worth a look at this, sure," he surmises after a moment, before reaching to his side and bringing forth what appears to be a small wooden barrel with a spout at the top, bound in wicker painted in faded red and teal. A few strands of beads sit tied around the spout, and Bull unwinds these before popping open the cork at the top.

"This? Is Maraas-lok. Crafted in Par Vollen. You'll want to be careful taking a sniff. It's been known to burn off eyebrows."

Despite his excitement at what is to come, Val takes his time with folding up the precious stocking. Drapes it first across his arm, then folds over the toe end, halfway, and then the thigh end, halfway. A neat envelope of silk, which he then tucks into safekeeping.

And then grabs hold of his chair and pulls in, closer, to the table, studying the bottle itself with rapt attention. He resist the urge to get out a bit of paper and draw it, comforts himself with the promise of later and the memorization of its shape now.

Even the pop of the cork has an exotic sound to it--or perhaps that is embellishment. Val thinks it is not. A poet embellishes. A scholar notes, and Val notes, mentally, exotic cork pop.

"I shall take great care," he promises, solemnly, as he reaches for the barrel. "Tell me, what purpose do the beads serve? Mere decoration?"

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