EVENT: TRUTH BOMB

[faderifting]

WHO: Anyone
WHAT: TRUTH BOMB
WHEN: Bloomingtide 15-17
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: OOC information. Use appropriate content warnings in your subject lines, please.

It’s an ordinary day—so not a very pleasant one. The weather is dreary and muggy, and the day’s lunch is a soup that’s a little too watery and bland. The griffons are being their usual level of noisy and swoopy. The work is its usual level of urgent and difficult.

But in the storage rooms, something wiggles. Then it hums. Then it pops.

Outside of the storage room, there’s no actual sound, no shift in the wind, and no visible sign of a change. But the pop might be felt—like the moment something finally clicks, or two ideas suddenly fit together, except the opposite. In the heads of everyone in the fortress, something is suddenly not connected quite right.

The first sign of what’s gone wrong is that someone immediately stands up and tells the cook how bad the soup is.

A lot of people’s days are about to get exponentially worse.

Comments

Anders (open, far-to-middling)

[justice_is_blond]

[A - Open, Gallows Infirmary]

The first sign that's something a little off comes while he's petting Isaac the Second and looking through his notes. The cat attempts to eat one of the sheets of parchment and Anders sighs.

"You're supposed to annoy Isaac and mess up his things, not mine, you know. You're cute, but you're not nearly fluffy enough to get away with not being useful." As it's all entirely true, Anders thinks nothing of it and goes back to working.

[B - Open, Mess Hall,later]

That something's actually wrong, in the air or the water or the food, seems a reasonable enough thought at this point. That Anders isn't the one ranting at people is a surprise to him (and probably others.) But because somehow he's calmer than many, he's going around and trying to talk some of the more angry down... when they're not angry at him. Those are the ones he's working very hard to steer clear of.

A quick "would you like to talk about something else?" or "how do you feel about cats?" seems to do the trick in most cases.

[C - Closed to Flint]

He absolutely can't blame a few someones for trying to escape the sudden restriction to the Gallows. Frankly, Anders is more than a little tempted to try to swim for it himself. But that's not what's brought him to the docks... yet. Right now, a rowboat steered by an inexperienced, panicking duo has tipped over and dumped said duo into the water, and the male of the pair is shouting that they can't swim. So into the water Anders goes, heading for whichever one is closest.

[D - Wildcard me]

[ooc: Want something else? Hit me up - toss up a prompt, or poke me on Plurk (Nadat) or Discord (Nadat#4647)! I'm gonna be looking to not get him in fights this event just because Thor's picking them everywhere, but I'm up for just about anything else.]

B

[altusimperius]

"I don't know what's happening," comes the miserable reply, when asked if he wants to talk about something else: Benedict has been waxing poetic on why the food here is inferior in every way to what his family's cook (a slave) used to make, a topic that he seemed to recognize as troublesome, but still couldn't stem.

A

[indissection]

"You could be a little kinder to the rat, seeing as you're the one that dotes on him."

Sidony is looking as regal as ever, swanning around the infirmary with something like weariness on her face. She doesn't want to admit some of her suspicions, but she's feeling somewhat out of her depth; she would never have called the animal a 'rat' in front of Anders before, but...

Stepping around, she leans over him.

"How fluffy does one have to be?"

what is a pirate's favorite letter

[katabasis]

The least they could have done was take the most care worn of the Inquisition's meager fleet of smallcraft instead of one so freshly reseamed, sealed and painted. If the intention was to drown themselves in the harbor and take a boat with them, there's a perfectly rotted out wherry right there for the taking. In which case, if there's any reason to be jumping into the harbor saving anybody, it's at least half in the interest of beating them senseless upon their rescue and return to solid ground.

Flint's in said aforementioned rotting wherry, the coil of rope he'd thrown over his arm still there about his shoulder as he hauls on the chipped oars. Even in first dregs of summer, the water is bone chillingly cold and it won't be long before it overwhelms even the most competent swimmer. Which is why he's cutting not straight for the two idiots floundering near the upturned shell, but instead for the single minded swimmer coursing out toward them - anonymous in the fever of the moment and the hack of the dark current.

"Two points to--," he starts to call. For fuck's sake, no one in this forsaken place knows starboard from either moon. "Swimmer, on your right! Take hold as I pass and I'll tow you out to them."

He's cutting very close with the rowboat, pulling once and then angling the heavy oar free of the water to slice over the swimmer's head as the boat pulls alongside.

Athessa || open, close-to-middling

[sulahnan]

I. Wild Card!

[The wildest card is putting the wildcard first. ]

II. Variety is the Spice of Life

Despite her tendency to hyperbolize things, Athessa doesn't actually lie all that often. However, she would normally exercise some restraint in what she says, picking and choosing what extremely honest thing she could say that would result in the least cutting embarrassment and, hopefully, the biggest laugh. She has, on multiple occasions, even admitted to doing something just to impress.

Most notably, one might recall an incident with her trying to single-handedly catch and relocate a bunch of bats when there was construction occurring on one of the towers, and as the bag writhed in her grip and wings stuck out the top and smacked her in the face, she turned to the person who had expressed concern about the bats' welfare and announced: I'M DOING THIS TO IMPRESS YOU. ARE YOU IMPRESSED?

So it's anyone's guess just how affected she is right now, curiously studying a book and not engaging in any of the many heated discussions, arguments, or outright fights happening nearby. Periodically, she relocates to a more secluded area, shooting furtive glances over the top of the tome in her hands.

II

[thorndergod]

He's trying to walk off the anger that he's been feeling for days now, though it's not yet helping. Not like he's letting it help, really, when he's picking fights over the crystals. He thumps his way into the kitchens to get another ale and looks back at the woman pretending she hadn't glanced his way.

"Is there something you would like to say?"

II

[altusimperius]

"I didn't know Dalish could read."

Oh Maker no. The tips of his fingers come to the young man's lips, and he watches the elf in nothing less than horror-- whether it's because he just committed a social gaffe or because Dalish are known to skin people and make mittens out of them, it's unclear.

Benedict (open, middling)

[altusimperius]

I. The Baths

Something has changed, but Benedict can't put his finger on what, and he's certainly not going to let it ruin a perfectly decent bath.
Whether he's still submerged and soaking his Luscious Locks or drying off after, conversations are likely to go a little differently than normal. Especially when he makes a comment, completely out of the blue, on someone's weird mole. At least he hasn't seemed to notice, not yet.

II. The Library

Off to work he goes, because letter-writing campaigns wait for no poison. Unfortunately, it's more difficult to write them today: Benedict has to keep stopping and crumpling up those that have become too candid, sometimes going so far as to outright state the position of the Gallows and their leanings on the Imperium.
Surrounded by balled-up parchment, fingers stained with ink, he's clearly getting frustrated.

III. Wildcard

Let's Get Unsettlingly Frank

II

[coquettish_trees]

"You dislike me."

Alexandrie, without preamble, stopping beside him in her passing with a small stack of books held in her arms. She looks slightly disconcerted by her own speech.

I!

[meds4sale]

The Medicine Seller was on a bench nearby, rinsing out the floral scented suds from the ridiculous mass of hair he somehow managed to hide almost entirely under a bandanna.

He cast a glance over his shoulder at Benedict's remark - it didn't seem to surprise him. The man was prone to stuffing his own foot in his mouth frequently.

"It is not a mole," he explained. And it wasn't. The red mark, dead center between his shoulder blades was, on closer inspection, the same eye motif that appeared on his clothing, his box, and on his sword.

"Are these things of such interest to you?"

II.

[keenly]

"Need help?"

Colin looks tired. The last few weeks have been absolutely terrible and some mind-numbing paperwork doesn't sound so bad.

I;

[sarcophage]

Let's Get Unsettlingly Frank while at our most vulnerable, shall we?

Leander did not choose this moment on purpose, mind you—he was only coming to bathe, himself—and upon seeing another body in the otherwise blessedly empty space, he nearly ducks out again. It's the hair he recognizes, at a slight delay, that snags him before his own body manages to execute his brain's first impulse to exit. Course correction: stay. Glide on in like you paid for this facility, barefoot and silent, and watch the back quarter of Benedict Reluctant-To-Share-His-Surname's head.
He does these things.

"I hope I'm not intruding," he says, purposefully sudden, while wielding the obvious impression that he doesn't mind if he is. It may not be the last lie he tells today—hours from now, once he's learned what's going on, he will leave Alexandrie a message of equal parts confession and deception, enticingly entwined, simply to see what comes of it—but it will find itself bereft of casual company soon enough.

"Odd time of day for a bath, isn't it—did you mean to avoid company as well?"

closed to kenna

[heirring]

--The problem of course, and you'll have noticed this already so I don't really know why I'm telling you at all except to prove that I haven't simply overlooked the detail, is that the options available to us as far as incendiaries go are limited to the extreme. This design would, I'm certain, work perfectly with enough propulsion from the base of the barrel, but I don't have any idea what could supply it.

[Wysteria stabs a finger at a spot on the schematic spread before them over the smithy's worktable. It's a neat piece of work - surprisingly clean and reasonably well drawn (thanks to a straight edge and a series of compasses) -, but for all her boasting to the vile Ser de Foncé it isn't an especially ingenius creation. If she's being very honest with herself (and Wysteria's feeling awfully compelled toward that this afternoon), it's in fact painfully derivative. Why, she can almost hear Mr Ralston's voice in her ear saying, 'Please Miss Poppell, you'vemerely produced a poor copy from the work of others come before you. Don't think that just because none of these people know any better that you can get away with it.'

But that's not the point and no one has asked about it, so that purely hypothetical voice can go stuff itself.]

The other issue is the matter of casting and materials. I don't even know where we'd begin to tackle any of that. I don't suppose you're close friends with either an alchemist or the owner of a very large copper and tin mine, are you?

[gritted]

[ Is it a boring design? Maybe. But it's new to her, and it's also — well it's very well drawn, and it's very enthusiastic, and Wysteria sounds extremely cute saying words like propulsion and incendiaries.

Kenna's leaning over the table and the schematics in your traditional workman's survey pose, but she rethinks it when Wysteria leans in to jab at the paper. She straightens up, crossing her arms and then thoughtfully placing one hand on her chin. ]

Well, [ Does she know anyone? Not really. ] I'm not close friends with anyone. I mean, definitely not an alchemist or someone in tin or copper, but we might be able to hoard enough if I make some trades.

[ That's all true enough, and honestly eager. But it trails off a bit at the end, her head tilting marginally as she eyes the drawing. ] It's a very odd cast, though. It looks a bit... you know.

Matthias || open, close-to-middling

[inkindled]

i- dining hall.
During mealtimes, the dinning hall is always found to be full of commotion--so that's not changed. But today the air feels different. And the commotion is different, too.

"Oh, piss off, would you, the food's not even that bad, you've not had proper bad food--at least it's fresh, isn't it, not grown eyes or chockablock full of insects--you're all a load of spoilt children for carrying on like this--what're you looking at, wanker, eyes on your own plate--"

Matthias grabs a breadroll off the table and lobs it at whatever person he's determined to be looking at him the wrong way. He's not done. His next volley is a handful of soup, which is only lukewarm, lucky for him, so it doesn't burn his hand--and he needs it to throw at his target, anyways, so even if it was hot he'd still weaponize it--no matter if it runs down his arm and gets all over the innocent bystanders.

It's a food fight, is what it is. Madness.

ii- ferry dock.
Evening is closing in, drawing its curtain and purpling the sky. The shadows get longer; the water looks darker. Across the way, the lights of Kirkwall proper are glittering.

Tucked into his hiding place, Matthias eyes are also glittering. It's not even that ingenious of a place to hide. He could be found fairly easily, if someone was really looking. There's a post of of stone with a beam driven into it, and a lantern on a hook on that beam. The post has barrels grouped around it, clustered tight like chicks around a broody, and Matthias is tucked among them like a foundling, scrawny enough that fits. He watches the lights, he watches the water--he watches the ferry, bobbing at the other dock, the one that would let off in Kirkwall. He waits.

And then, when it's dark enough, and it seems that no one else is around: he unfolds, emerges from his hiding place, his dark cloak helping to hide him but doing nothing to disguise the shape of his staff, which he has (as usual) strapped to his back. But he can't very well leave it behind, can he? So he's got it, and he grips at the strap that holds it in place as he stands at the edge of the dock, a few moments too long, screwing up his courage, and then--with a splash--jumps in to the water.

Of course, there's likely a guard posted. So what.


iii- courtyard.
"Hey, fuck you!"

Matthias, sodden and damp, is in trouble. This might actually be his third attempt to swim for it, so it's proper trouble this time. But he seems disinclined to be cowed, at all, by this danger, and is complaining, loudly, as he's led dripping across the cobblestones.

"Fuck you, you fucking fucks--hope your fathers dicks rot off and your mothers go to early graves out of shame for what you've all turned out to be--I'm allowed to leave if I want to, this is bloody imprisonment, just 'cause-- I don't even bloody well know any secrets, all right, and besides, I thought we were all about freedom and all, aren't we? Not this, this is idiotic, I can leave if I want--"

All this and more as he's pulled away to cool down somewhere. But not without a fight, which, as he breaks free--he's not tied up or anything, just being frog-marched along, and perhaps that was the mistake--and hauls off to punch the face in of one of his captors. Or a bystander, even. Might be anyone, really.

III

[altusimperius]

"WATCH--" comes the yelp of someone who is nearly punched, but draws back in time, stopping the boy's fist with what might be called a clumsy karate chop in a universe where karate is a thing and can be done badly.

"If you ruin my face I'll bury you," comes the perhaps too-frank admonishment, and Benedict tosses his hair, straightening out his robes. "You can't leave, we're cursed. As usual. When are we not cursed."

Julius | open, middling

[overharrowed]

I. Early

Julius doesn't first realize the effect as it pertains to himself at all. He's used to the low itch of carrying around unvoiced opinions and unexamined memories, and sometimes that sensation is more itchy than others. But after overhearing a few interesting sending crystal messages and having a guard he didn't even know on more than nodding terms blurt out, unprompted, that mages still gave him the creeps as hard as he tried to relax around them... it didn't take long for Julius to think a bit more closely about his own discomfort.

It's likely a bad sign, but how bad he isn't quite sure.

He's heading for his office, to be safe, and considering whether to put his sending crystal somewhere out of reach. There's likely work to be done, though precisely what... well. He'll figure it out when he gets there and is no longer in the hallway. Where anyone at all can just talk to him.

II. Later

Staying quiet and out of the way only works for so long. It's taking effort, and that effort is beginning to wear on him. He decides to look for a division head, or even another project leader. Perhaps if they keep the subject matter to strictly what is happening and how to make it stop, no one will say anything regrettable.

He'd rather see strangers, at the moment. If he says something to someone with no context for him, that can be dealt with. People he knows are a more complicated prospect, and he'd just ... rather not. (He's likely not going to be so lucky; the Gallows isn't that heavily populated.)

i

[wythersake]

He hasn't been looking for Julius.

Hasn't been looking for anyone, but if he's not the last person Isaac would like to run into right about now — well, twelth place isn't bad.

"Oh, fuck." He says, in the hallway, where anyone at all can just talk to anyone. Can even run into them headlong, if they're paying very close attention to not saying every single little thought that crosses their mind instead of what foot goes in front of the other, "It's you and your bangs."

They're awful. Not that Isaac has any room to talk, except that talking about some things seems to make it easier to avoid the others, and It's you and your brain isn't —

His mouth screws up, briefly frustrated; bites something back.

kostos | far/low

[exequy]

I. PROJECT OFFICES

Kostos has had better days, but that's less because of whatever is going around, honesty-wise—he hasn't realized yet, or at least not the extent of it—and more because he's clearing his personal possessions out of the project office and putting things in order for whoever is taking over.

He's not sorry to have lost the post. Ask him, he'll say so, even today. But he is sorry that he has to tell anyone else he lost it, and possibly be observed in the process of losing it, rather than disappearing from it so completely and instantaneously that he can pretend he never had it at all and anyone who thinks he did is imagining things.

But he's also had worse days. Like, nobody is dead. And Talas is methodologically breaking small pieces off a long, thin stick he brought in from the courtyard, in the room's far corner, and then fluttering over to the desk to deliver them one by one out to Kostos, which is the only thing in a long time that Kostos has considered cute.

The door is open, if someone needs him. Or likes ravens. Or likes little piles of stick bits.

II. FOR NELL

"Crystal."

He's now realized the extent of it—and that Nell has it worse, which is why he's locking the door to an empty residential room that doesn't belong to either of them and holding one hand out to her.

His crystal is in the palm of his extended hand, but Kostos isn't giving it to her. He wants hers. He'll put them in a drawer, just in case. Maybe they can keep their mouths shut. He definitely can. But there's more than one person here he wouldn't trust not to take advantage of the opportunity, so they aren't getting one.

He has a bad feeling about it, but he has bad feelings about nearly everything. It will probably be fine. The room has four beds and a bathroom, and he brought a deck of cards.

[indissection]

It's not very often that Sidony goes out of her way to visit cousins of any kind; most of the time it's sour whispers over the crystals or a note left in some place to annoy and irritate, but today she is feeling particularly prickly. She's seeking the attention of someone who might be both honest with her and, yet, hold some kind of kindness. She knows that she is inflicted with some kind of a magical curse - because, of course, magic is always to blame - but she has yet to recognise the depth of it.

Peeking into the office, she smiles almost smugly as she spots Kostos, stepping inside with her arms crossed behind her back. She gives the appearance of having simply wandered around, happenstance lending itself to her finding him, as if none of this was deliberate.

"I didn't know you had a pet."

charles vane ; comment here for probably-insults ig???

[sclavus]

PROJECT OFFICES;

[ while Vane wasn't particularly close to the bomb, he was middling enough that the truth bubbles up in his head, along with the vague compulsion, but despite the fact it doesn't feel very pressing, vane also makes zero effort to hold the words in.

so, as he goes about his work in the project offices, occasionally, he might pass people in the halls, and that's when the fun occurs. ]

You're a fuckin' prick and I hate how slow you walk in the halls.

[ he says to a man collecting some papers from the Research office to run it up towards the Scouting office. the man looks offended, but too shocked by the sudden offer of the commentary to say anything, and Vane paces on, until he turns a corner and nearly runs into someone leaving the Diplomacy office. ]

That hat makes you look like a pretentious, hightown cunt.

[ he's making all kinds of friends.

if you're about to pass him by, there's a good chance you're about to get his personal opinion of you blurted out as he wanders along. ]

ADDITION FOR NELL;

[ at some point, he's done charting some courses on the maps in the once naval presence office now that room he and flint sit in office, ready to head back to the docks for the rest of the day, and it's the mage girl from the Venatori ship thing that's pacing the opposite way down the hall.

of course, when she passes, the truth curse flares up, and out come the words - ]

You were a badass on the ship raid and your hair's a nice color.

[ a pause, and vane frowns. well, that wasn't an insult, and it's much less satisfying to blab out at a stranger. Then again, hey, nice hair. after a thoughtful frown, he smirks, then lets out an amused snort. ]

[altusimperius]

[Well as long as people are being insulted with connections to Hightown, Benedict is going to give this one a wide berth. He offers a decidedly unsubtle sneer as he glances over the man, making it quite clear what he thinks of him, his behavior, his wardrobe, and probably his lineage.]

lakshmi - close/middling - come get roasted

[shri]

i. consider this to be as wildcard as you see fit
Lakshmi goes about her business, as she ever does, brisk, direct and uninterested in things getter in her way. If especially so right now. Ignoring the network, which might tell her that something was strange going on, she throws herself into work and strictly discussing nothing at all but her work, and avoids any situation where she must be around anyone she doesn't have the patience for. Her steps long, irritated as she has been since the word of the vote came in. The same frown on her face that seems perpetually stuck on her face that says to her bad temper. Her steps long, adjusting the saree that says she'd been out doing her personal business rather than the Inquisitions - or whatever they were now. Foolish idiots.

Until at something of a hold up of people moving through, she is stuck staring at the walls of the Gallows Fortress. Frowning at the architecture, as ever, a thing that has irritated her since the day she came. "Who designed this fortress? Orlais? It would be their dreadful ostentatious taste."

come at me

[coquettish_trees]

"Tevinter," is the reply from just behind Lakshmi. In the light Orlesian accent of a woman whose father is an Orlesian architect of renown.

"It is far too linear and bleak and grey and designed specifically to intimidate for Orlesian architecture," here she is, stepping alongside the other woman to eye the edifice with similar criticism. "I have hated it since first laying my eyes upon it, but it is the last that guides it, I think. Minrathous was beautiful."

lexie | middle-far

[coquettish_trees]

[ prompts, get your prompts here~ ]

for gwenaëlle

[coquettish_trees]

[ Something has been nibbling at Alexandrie's heels ever since the last pieces of her upcoming nuptials fell into place. Little, like the gnawing of a single mouse at the base of a weight-bearing beam, but nibbling all the same. She's kept it to herself; quieted it with the small even stitches of her embroidery, her mercantile dealings, her work for the Gallows, the time spent with unalloyed happiness in the company of her soon-to-be husband.

But sometimes, the tiny little scratch of teeth on wood.

And now, under the effect of whatever has happened on the island, she finds herself compelled to unearth it to someone. And someone, as usual, is Gwenaëlle Baudin. ]

You know quite well I have never stinted on outlandish dramatics nor shied away from risk, but... I fear, given current events, that I shall scorch my own feathers terribly in pursuit of this particular sun.

closed || Yseult

[staysail]

There's sixteen steps between each.

[Darras nods over his shoulder, back the way he came. The stairwell is narrow in this part of the Gallows, and certainly would not be wide enough for two men to walk abreast--which is nearly what it would take, to bring the large rug out of the scoutmaster's offices and carry it down the stairs. One man might manage it alone if he took his time with it. Darras is one such man, cheerful enough to volunteer his assistance. It's not quite what he's meant for, but he can manage enough all right. That's even what he'd said to Yseult herself, when he'd turned up with the work order at her office this morning.

He gives her a little half-grin now. They're more at odds than evens these days, delving into arguments that linger between them like souring wounds. It's all still there, clouding the water.

Only it's still Yseult. When the day ends and the sun's gone down on it all, it's Yseult. Impossible to separate her out from the rest of it, and that's what makes it so miserable.]

Four flights, sixteen steps apiece, reckon-- [you owe me for that, how do we calculate what's owed, something along those lines is at least what he intends to say. What he actually says is,] --it would be easier if we didn't know each other, if we were just meeting, but then I'd not be here in the first place. D'you think, ever, of what, [Hang on, what. Darras cuts himself off with a scowl. Sure and it's an early morning; he's tired. Still. He gives his head a little shake. This time, instead of what he means to say (an apology), he ends angling for peace with a different sort of offer:] I've been trying to learn horses, since half the missions involve the bloody things.

[True. But still. He touches a hand, cautious, to the back of his head. Perhaps he'll find some wound there that's making him act mad. Perhaps it will be as in that dream he used to have, as a child, with a string coming out of the back of his neck.

There's nothing, of course. What.]

[hassaran]

[ Yseult frowns. And it lingers, as she shifts the carpet on her shoulder, tugging her shirt collar free from beneath it, and right through horses, too. ]

What?

[ She wasn't going to ask quite like that, but out it comes, doing nothing to smooth her frown. ]

Do I think ever of what?

ilias | middling

[libratus]

[ prompts are going here, hmu if you want one! ]

leander;

[libratus]

[ Ilias's approach along the ramparts is not what you would call tentative. Head ducked, shoulders forward, the hem of his robes catching the air, as if refraining from making eye contact with anyone or anything along his route will keep him from blurting out something he regrets for the next five minutes at least.

His usual polite distance, the measured and curated space he has been so careful to maintain between himself and Leander thusfar, is crossed in a series of swift steps, the extension of a hand as if to touch an elbow — not to grab, but to curl arm and shoulder near enough that a hissed whisper need not carry down from between them to the whole damn courtyard.

And to turn palm up. ]

Your sending crystal. Please.

Fingon

[utulien_aure]

One

"One thing I've never understood in tall the time I've been here," Fingon suddenly says as he passes the central chapel sometime after lunch, "it's why people need all of this"- and here he waves at the chapel and everything in it- "for their Maker. The One created a world outside their doorsteps, and instead they stay inside, playing with ritual and ceremony in a way that would make a Vanya uncomfortable."

He sniffs, "And their artwork is terrible, at that. Why even bother in that case?"

Wait. What.

It's not as though everything he said wasn't true- but his mother raised him with manners. So what came out of that?


Two

So it continues. His mouth opens and sound comes out, without heed of judgment or sense or even inclination to speak. But if Fingon can't move his mouth, at least he can move his feet- so he goes to the stables, where no animal is inclined to listen to anything he says. Or even understand most of it, which for once is no cause for frustration.

"So what will it be, Runya?" he asks in Sindarin as he attends to the elk's grooming. "We babble continuously at each other until this all wears off? Would you care if I slept in here until the mess is done? At least then I would not slip 'hello, I am a murderer and accursed,' or some other secret through all the halls of the Gallows. Though I wonder what they could even do on the subject now-"

He pauses, turns to the patient animal as he replays the sentence in his head.

"And half of that was in the tongue of Thedas, wasn't it?"