faderift | [ open + catch-all]

"Oh," Val says, when he looks up from the manuscript that he has just cracked open, and finds someone else standing in the doorway of the library. "I did not know this was a joint effort."

He tips his head slightly to peer around the newcomer and find the eyes of their host, a rather tall dwarf named Tornak, who shrugs innocently. Is there a twinkle in his smallish eyes? Who could say. They are half lost in the thicket of his ginger eyebrows and the apples of his cheeks. His moustache likewise hides any tell that his mouth might give, and he mumbles something about expertise and sharing in knowledge and bows his way out of the room. The library has a small foyer before it, lined with bookshelves stuffed full of tomes and volumes and parchment. It absorbs the sound of the door closing, and the clack of the key turning in the lock, as Tornak completes his obligation.

Val does not rise to greet the newcomer, who looks vaguely familiar. Handsome enough, bright of eye, which at least suggests at some intelligence. Val isn't necessarily opposed to collaboration. It's just that he has a preferred set of collaborators that he prefers to work with, whose opinions are the only one who cares for, who will really understand what it is that they are looking at.

So, with quite a bit of generosity, for him, Val gestures to the empty chair across the table from him.

"My friend."

"You need something translated--" comes Benedict's reply, nearly cut off by the sound of the door closing behind him. Instinctively he checks the latch, finds it won't move, and all casualness goes right out the window. Clearly this is a trap, and he was sent here to be killed.

"What do you want," he demands, spooked, back against the door. The stranger is handsome, and Bene is certain he's seen him before, but he's not about to trust anyone who locks him in a room.

Edited 2019-02-19 00:58 (UTC)

"By the Maker, what are you doing with that door?"

Val's nose wrinkles as he leans a little more to the side, trying to see around this fellow. This means that when Benedict jolts around to face him again, Val is staring at him with his head sort of tipped, wearing an expression of indulgent amusement. Who is this strange creature and what does it want?

He sits up again. "Do I want something translated? This is what you meant to have said, yes?"

The questioning is met with a look of bewilderment, but at least obliviousness somewhat speaks for itself. No doubt if he'd brought Benedict here to kill him, the stranger would have acted by now, said something to indicate such intentions.

Still, Benedict stays where he is for the moment. "...I was told someone needed assistance in translating some Tevene," he explains, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

Val looks down at the open journals and folios and notes and Tevene dictionaries that are spread across the table before him. He has been working for at least a little while, now--arrived early without even considering that he might be imposing, ignored all harried glances from Tornak which would have tipped off a man more sensitive to the schedules and wishes of others. To arrive early, unexpectedly, out of character, without care: this is his way.

He looks up again, after a moment of due consideration.

"My friend. Were you sent by Andraste herself? I did not request such assistance aloud, but thought to myself: if only there were someone here whose tongue had a command of this brutish Tevene. And here you have appeared. What blessing. Here!"

He stands, abruptly, and grabs for a thick squat writing-book.

"This is chief among the volumes of this scholar's writings, so far as I can tell. A book of great importance, but the words he has chosen are archaic. You must tell me what they say."

Benedict seems willing to believe this is in earnest, but his nose wrinkles at the word 'brutish'. He is perhaps about to object, but then the book is given to him, and instead he opts to look down at it and give it a glance-over.

Several long moments go by, and his brow furrows again. "...is this a joke," he says, incredulity creeping into his voice.

It is not Orlesian, Val would argue. Ergo: it is brutish. Whose tongue is finer than the tongue of Orlais, so melodic and harmonious? Even its written word is a pleasing script, an elegant line across the page. What has Tevene to recommend it so?

He has turned back to his notes for those moments in which his companion makes a study of the page. When at last he speaks, Val must then look up, somewhat absently, and consider the possibility.

"I do not know," he confesses, after he has made that consideration. "You must tell me. Is it a joke? I could not hardly get through it."

"It's," nearly comes the answer, but a sigh of aggravation follows immediately after, and Benedict bites his lower lip. He inhales deeply, then cuts his eyes back to Val, certain he's being made a fool of, and equally certain there's nothing he can do about it.
"Where did you get this," he asks instead.

Val's nose wrinkles as his mouth quirks into an amused smirk. He makes an extravagant gesture toward the room at large. This.

"It was waiting for me. Is it a joke? Are you making a joke? Should I be laughing? I am amused, of course. But at what?"

Benedict quirks an eyebrow and glances around, following Val's gesture, but doesn't comment on that just yet. "It's-- erotica," he says, wrinkling his nose, "...about." Hesitating before continuing, he sighs and tosses the manuscript back onto the table with little care.
"...people dressed like dragons."

"My friend--" Val stands up, pushing aside his chair with the back of his knees, and reaches across to pick up the manuscript.

"That is no way to treat a text," he chides. Which, the head of the Research Library in Val Royeaux would be put into hysterics if he heard Val chiding someone else about treating a text with irreverence--but all the same.

With the volume in his hand, the weight of what he has just been told sinks in. Swiftly, he flips it around so he can peer suspiciously at the cover. Wait, what?

"Dragon costumed erotica?" No, wait, really? He is swift to flip open the text, too, and begins scouring the pages with renewed interest. "That is what this is? But that is fantastic!"

Unsuccessfully chided, Benedict wrinkles his nose when Val goes to pick it up again. His expression is sour at first, seeing as he's still feeling ornery about being closed in here, but Val's enthusiasm is enough to soften it slightly-- even into the faintest of smiles.

"Is it," he asks, cautiously.

"Of course it is. From a cultural perspective, to begin with. What is it of the dragon that peaks such of this interest or desire, in the author of this text? What is it in particular that he finds so alluring? Is it the danger? Is it the size? The brutality? What in his life has made him feel so, and what in his culture has shaped his life? But then also--"

And Val look up, with a little grin.

"It is an amazing work on its own. Who does not appreciate such a text?"

That's an interesting spin on it, Bene can't deny. He snorts, rolling his eyes, and leans against the wall, perhaps getting a little more comfortable in the process.

"He's forgetting that High Dragons are female," he points out, "unless. ...he isn't."

"Either way, it is interesting. Does he desire the male and so changes the physical characteristics to suit? Or does he desire the female, to overpower? An understandable feeling. But which is it?"

It is a real question, and Val holds the volume out with reverence.

"You must tell me," he says, "for you alone can translate this for me. Which is it?"

If nothing else, making Benedict feel unique and important is the key to winning him over, so Val isn't doing half-bad. With a wry look, Bene receives the book and looks at it again, his dark eyes flitting over the passage in question and the next page.

"I don't think it's addressed at all," he muses, "an artistic choice, perhaps, or just ignorance."

"Is that so!"

Previously engaged in leaning forward and staring very hard at his new friend, Val, so answered, now leans back in his chair. To give him extra power of thought, he tips the chair onto its back two legs, keeping himself grounded by gripping at the edge of the table. A few thoughtful rocks.

"If it is artistic choice," he says, eventually, "then it was deliberate. Let us assume that is the case. So, the author chooses to leave vague the sex of this dragon. Does he perhaps wish for us, the reader, to see ourselves in the place of the narrator?"

"Maker, I don't know." This elicits an actual laugh, and, finally, Benedict takes a seat with one more uncertain glance at the locked door.
"I think you're giving them too much credit," he admits, "the writing really isn't that sophisticated."

If Val is at all concerned, or even aware, that they are together trapped behind the locked door, he shows no sign of it. He rocks forward on his chair once more, tipping it closer to the table as he considers.

"An unsophisticated work is perhaps even more fascinating. It contains that which its author thought, and felt, at the time of its writing, but its inclusion is more unconscious, yes? The author of sophistication might carefully couch or control that which is within his text. He would be more aware of it, at least. But the layman who pens mere smut--what might we learn of his mind, the mind and proclivities of a common man. And then," as he rocks back again, weighing this, "what if its lack of sophistication is purposeful?"

"I-- I suppose," Benedict stammers, struggling to follow the Orlesian's train of thought, but oddly charmed by it all the same. "...but if the idea is to emulate the mind of the common man, why not choose a more common subject?" That's two entirely separate genres of niche fiction!
"...and furthermore, if it does come from the hand of a sophisticate, is it genius or madness that we're seeing?"

"If the common man chooses to write of himself, grandly, what does that mean? What does he try to say, by presenting himself so? Does he comment not upon himself, but upon those grand fellows that he is imitating, in his words? The questions lead to more questions. This is how you know that it is a good problem to be considering."

Val tips the chair back, so he can lean closer to his conversational partner. There are very few who can keep up with him at all. This fellow is making a good show of it, at least. Not his equal, but a decent person to speak with. Imagine, finding that in Kirkwall! And with a man of Tevinter!

"Now. If it is the writing of a sophisticate. We might say, from the writing alone: he is a genius. But if we knew the author's identity, we would know so much more of him. His history, his peerage, his politics. Then we could say more for certain, of the text, and his intent."

It's not that Valentin is wrong, or even offensive, but the shifting complexities of the discussion are beginning to bore Benedict. His eyes don't glaze over, per se, but they do seem to come into sharper focus when the Orlesian leans back toward him, accompanied by a little smirk, perhaps of appreciation.
He's not bad-looking, for a southerner. Seems to think himself quite the intellectual, which isn't always a bad thing--better than the alternative, at any rate, someone who can't hold a conversation at all. And he dresses well, all things considered.

Could be worse.

Unfortunately, this is what Benedict is thinking about instead of what's being said, so when Val has finished speaking, there's a brief pause before the Vint gives a start and a "hmm?" as he meets his eyes once again.

"We were speculating," Val prompts, "on the identity of the author."

He tips his head, considering his conversational partner from a new angle. The smirk had made him think that his reasoning was causing some intellectual reaction, but now, he is not as certain.

But what, then, does the smirk mean?

"Perhaps you might tell me something of your identity. To help me to understand you, as a reader."

"My identity?"

Thinking himself not entirely caught out just yet, Benedict straightens, flattered but cautious. It's fortunate that his skin is on the darker side, and the faint heat that rises from his cheeks isn't as visible as it would be on someone of a lighter complexion-- but the keen of eye may still notice.

"...what do you want to know?"

"Oh," and Val makes a broad gesture, "any thing, I suppose. Where it is you are from, what it is that has brought you here, what it is you are about--if you study or if you busy yourself with some employment--even what sort of wine you enjoy could prove to be useful and interesting in this, yes?"

He tips back his chair again on this note, careless in this, but focused on his conversational partner, trying to suss him out.

"The last of these might be most telling. If you answer ale, I shall not be offended. I am Orlesian, of course, so much so that my blood is nearly a wine, but I do enjoy ale. It is often the only fitting drink that one finds while on the road."

His lips quirking into a smile, Benedict shakes his head. "Never cared much for ale," he admits, "I find it..." How best to phrase this, "...coarse. Wine, of course, is preferable. But you haven't really drunk it unless you've had it from a Tevene vineyard." (Tevintners)

"I'm from Minrathous, and my mother is a Magister in the Imperial Senate. In the Inquisition I serve as the chamberlain and have studies on the side." The nature of those studies doesn't need to be disclosed, not just yet.

Edited 2019-04-04 22:10 (UTC)

"This is--"

Shit, is what it is. Salvio has his arm raised and his forehead nearly tucked into the crook of his own elbow, chin against his chest--the better to protect his eyes from the barrage of flower petals that are being strewn before him.

In his hand, he clutches the list that was given to them. There are few things in life more satisfying than crossing items off of a list. The simple straightforward organization that comes of tabulating tasks, and then completing tasks, and then drawing a neat line through each task as it is completed--it is its own reward, quite separate from the actual achievement of the task. This list is a bit irregular. What need has the Inquisition for two dozen white lilies and sprays of green arranged in a tasteful bouquet, half-wrapped in white paper and bound with a pale green ribbon? Salvio cannot think of a single reason.

But they were on the list, and far be it from him to stray from a prescription such as this, so, here the flowers are, carried by the Scoutmaster. Salvio risks a look over his arm to check how she is carrying them. A little too cavalier, he decides, and so instead of finishing his first thought, he says, "You might consider the, um. Bruising. Of the petals."

For his trouble, Darling, the waifish flower girl, darts around to the left of Salvio to chuck another handful of flower petals in his face. Salvio protects his eyes just in time.

It is, indeed, shit, or something like it, though Beleth can’t help but be somewhat amused by the entire ordeal—whether in spite of, or because of, Salvio's own discomfort, it’s hard to say. There's something decidedly odd about this, but if Leliana wants her to inspect a bunch of flowers and wine, than who is she to question the Nightingale? Perhaps it’s a test, she ponders, as she swats Darling's roaming hands away from Salvio's pocket for the third time.

On Salvio's comment regarding the bruising, she turns to scrutinize the bouquet. If she understands that it was an admonishment of her own conduct, she doesn’t show it. There is a rising temptation to simply pop a petal in her mouth and assure him of its good health—something a Dalish might find quite normal, but would be seen as decidedly odd to shemlen. And probably Salvio in particular. But she’s spent long enough time trying to be seen as A Good Dalish™ that she won’t jeopardize it just to bother one human.

A suitable compromise sees Beleth taking a single flower from the bouquet, and after giving it a little flick towards his face (for the purpose of letting him see better, not nearly booping him on the nose, of course), she offers it to him.

"They seem in good shape to me, but I'll keep an eye on them. I appreciate your concern, and aid in this matter." A gesture to all around her (interrupted as she gets a handful of petals to her face, courtesy of Darling), to indicate their whole current situation. Whatever this situation is. "The flowers are quite pretty, are they not? I've heard they can be used for tea." Because stewing flower petals in water is more socially acceptable than just eating them.

"That isn't, ne--"

Salvio makes a noise of quiet distress, as the scoutmaster flips a flower in his direction. He flinches, but a little too late, and is saved from his nose-booped fate only because of Ashara's control. That would imply an obligation of gratefulness on his part, one that he perhaps ought to express to her in some way. Instead, Salvio frowns slightly, and rubs the side of one forefinger against his nose, as if having had suffered the blow regardless.

"I do admire flowers," he admits, and only a little stiffly. "For their beauty and their other qualities. They have many uses, tea being only one of them. The art of their preservation is, um. Somewhat overlooked. I wonder if tha, I mean, not their preservation. The, uh, former point of discussion. Their uses. I wonder, I mean, I think--perhaps this is why we have been tasked to--fetch them."

But the wine is more mysterious. Salvio squints at the list, trying to ignore Darling entirely, as if this will perhaps make her disappear. Contrary to this wish, the little girl capers in front of them, doing a complicated little dance.

"You smell," she sings, in a pure clear voice, "you sme-ll, you sme-ll," and flashes Beleth a big old grin.

[ open + catch-all]

Benedict Quintus Artemaeus and Valentine Nicasius Maxence Mérovée Olivier de Foncé

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Salvio and Beleth's hot corporate approved date

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