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."

Larock is a middle-aged dwarf with a handsome salt-and-pepper beard and large blue eyes. Pel and Tyrion are left waiting for only an hour at an entrance to the Deep Roads before he turns up with a cart pulled by a bronto, its contents covered with a canvas tarpaulin. He grins when he sees them. The grin is not friendly, but neither is it unfriendly. It is the grin of someone who just pulled one over on someone and is now showing his true hand. Or maybe he's about to show his true hand.

"Greetings," he offers in a warm tenor. "May I see some identification, or shall I turn this cart around before anything more is said?"

Pel squints at him. Wordlessly, she steps forward and hands him their Inquisition travel documents. The dwarf scans over them and gives a sharp laugh.

"Adorable." He hands the papers back to her. "I don't need these to know who you are. The elf is our curious letter-writer, and the very sensibly sized human is a negotiator. Exactly what I expected."

One corner of Tyrion's mouth twists up slightly, as he folds his hands over his knee. and waits for the man to finish examining their documents. He tips his head in a slight bow, his greeting warm but not -- sniveling. He has a feeling this man isn't up for sniveling.

"Good day to you, Master Larock. Tyrion Lannister, and although I am sure you know this good lady's name, this is Pel. We're pleased you answered our communications." He looked towards the outside of the tunnel, "Should we retire further in? I am given to understand that sunlight does not agree with the Children of the Stone, and we would hate to give you discomfort."

Larock waves away his concern. "Mine's not the ass you're gonna be kissing, Negotiator. Though I appreciate that you did your homework. I'll pass that along. Meanwhile, I have some things your elf is salivating for."

He yanks the cover off the cart. It's empty, save for a single chest. Pel gives it a blink, but her face changes little.

"I was led to believe there was more," she says.

"There is!" Larock takes a key and unlocks the chest. "But we couldn't give you everything you asked for at once, or we'd be the worst bargainers under the world. Or over it. This is a taste. A gesture of goodwill." He opens the chest. "You pick over that to see if it's what you're looking for. You--"

Pel gets to the chest, starting to pick over it, a faint frown on her face betraying her disappointment. Larock crosses to Tyrion and holds out a book. Not a huge book, but a book nonetheless. Journal-sized.

"I'm supposed to give this to you. It's our terms."

Not a page of terms, or a scroll of terms. It's a book of terms, complicated and worded confusingly, with cross-references.

Tyrion glanced over at Pel, then back at Larock. His eyes flickered as well, but his expression was still pleasantly bland as he starts to flick through the Journal of Terms. Giving Pel time to see if what she wants is in the chest - he also goes to pluck up a piece of charcoal from his bag and makes notes in the margins of the terms.

While he does that, he speaks to Larock, "Just out of curiosity - will our chest be the same size if we quibble over meaningless details - or will we gain much higher rewards just by playing the willing maiden? Considering of what I've heard of the Deshyrs, I gather the truth is somewhere in the middle."

He tuts at one phrase, and clearly crosses out an entire page. "Well that is simply not going to occur. Might as well ask for fifty virgin maidens from Orlais."

Larock smirks. "This isn't Orzammar. We know how to write a contract. Before you tear out a page, you might want to check all the references in case you're writing off something you don't want to write off."

Pel pulls out...a single Light of Arlathan. Intact. Her heart leaps at the sight, and she smooths over the glass with her fingertips. It flickers to light. She smiles, lets it go dark, and keeps rummaging. Junk. Pottery, some broken and some intact. Corroded knives. Deeper in, her heart leaps again at the touch of a metal she is not immediately familiar with. She pulls out a sword-blade, similar in design to the Dalish dar'misaan, with only minor corrosion and lacking a hilt. Something in it resonates with her at its touch, and ancient memory stirs in her. She remembers this blade--not this specific one, but she knows what it is. The elf-spirit in the Brecilian Ruins used to have one of its own. All her memories of training, of practicing, of guarding and warring, consisted of two hands and one sword just like this. Newer, of course. But just like this. And this blade is still good. There are others like it in the chest in varying stages of ruin, but this is one of the ones that can be salvaged. She resists the urge to clutch it to her chest.

Mine.

She sets it aside carefully to keep going through the chest. Charms. Amulets. Since these were safe from weather and sun, almost all of them are extraordinarily well preserved. She has no immediate way of determining for certain if they are really from Arlathan because she has never seen Arlathan artifacts in such good repair, but logic and study are of one mind here. She has many more reasons to believe they are real than she has to believe they are fraudulent. She turns around at last.

"These are what I'm looking for," she confirms. "And real, so far as I can tell. I've never seen Arlathan artifacts in such good state, but they weren't made anytime recently. And some of them are real beyond a shadow of a doubt."

As a researcher, Pel dearly wants to pursue the rest. But the Inquisition's resources are not hers to bargain with. That's what Tyrion is here for.

"I would never tear out a page of a contract, Master Larock. However, our position is a unique one. You have two things that we want - and we have two things that you want. I am just doing you the favor of showing you precisely how much we would have to start ... trimming, to get the Inquisition to swallow." Tyrion smiled genially, before he started skimming through once more, "It seems a great deal of this is in fact - tasks to be completed."

He glances over at Pel, and gives her a smile, before looking back at Larock, "If I complete these in a timely, and otherwise amazing way, may she have more artifacts? To show you our goodwill - I could begin these the moment the conversation is concluded."

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

The Journey There

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The Meeting

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