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[Oh hello there. Welcome to her secluded corner of the Gallows gardens where she's currently doing what appears to be quite a lot of extremely boring Inquisition paperwork. Wysteria throws her pen down with great relish. Ah, thank the gods! A distraction.]
I told her she could have my traveling case if she cared to have it. [Oh, but also:] Dear Miss Lux isn't creepy. She's spirited.
I told her she could have my traveling case if she cared to have it. [Oh, but also:] Dear Miss Lux isn't creepy. She's spirited.
Poppell.
[It's desperation that moves him. There is no one to turn to. Perhaps he chooses a Rifter because, with their lives so much elsewhere, they might have a cooler perspective. Perhaps he chooses Poppell in particular because he is intimidated by her, and so often the things that he is intimidated by are the things that are right and sensible and deserving of respect.
Or perhaps she's just the first name written down on the first parchment that he sees, when he stops staring into space.]
This is, um. Seneschal Pizzicagnolo. With a question, of some-- Have you had experience, with... bad news? [That sounds so inadequate; he winces at himself, and rubs his hand over his eyes. Shit.] The... breaking of it, that is. Diplomatically.
[....no, shit; he rubs his hand over his eyes again.] Forgive me. This is not-- appropriate, for a message sent over the crystals, so-- Something has happened.
[It's desperation that moves him. There is no one to turn to. Perhaps he chooses a Rifter because, with their lives so much elsewhere, they might have a cooler perspective. Perhaps he chooses Poppell in particular because he is intimidated by her, and so often the things that he is intimidated by are the things that are right and sensible and deserving of respect.
Or perhaps she's just the first name written down on the first parchment that he sees, when he stops staring into space.]
This is, um. Seneschal Pizzicagnolo. With a question, of some-- Have you had experience, with... bad news? [That sounds so inadequate; he winces at himself, and rubs his hand over his eyes. Shit.] The... breaking of it, that is. Diplomatically.
[....no, shit; he rubs his hand over his eyes again.] Forgive me. This is not-- appropriate, for a message sent over the crystals, so-- Something has happened.
[In constrast, it would be very difficult to convince Wysteria that there is any point at all in quietly ignoring an invitation to have a conversation, no matter how fumbling the precursor to it. Somewhere, she takes up her crystal with considerable shock and delight to answer:]
Would you like me to come by your office, Seneschal? Perhaps we could talk through it together. I could of course be there in no time whatsoever. Would you like me to bring something fortifying to drink? Or a small piece of cheese or bread to nibble on? I find great comfort in a bite of food when everything is going wrong.
Would you like me to come by your office, Seneschal? Perhaps we could talk through it together. I could of course be there in no time whatsoever. Would you like me to bring something fortifying to drink? Or a small piece of cheese or bread to nibble on? I find great comfort in a bite of food when everything is going wrong.
[It was inevitable.]
[Upon her return to the Gallows, Wysteria will find a small basket of smaller gifts-- a curving ribbon in autumnal colors, a nicely woven blanket, and a large tome on... Tevene financial history.]
[The note attached reads in a scratchy, uneven hand: Your Secret Admirer. Happy Satinalia.]
[Upon her return to the Gallows, Wysteria will find a small basket of smaller gifts-- a curving ribbon in autumnal colors, a nicely woven blanket, and a large tome on... Tevene financial history.]
[The note attached reads in a scratchy, uneven hand: Your Secret Admirer. Happy Satinalia.]
[The blanket? Lovely! What quality! The ribbon? A charming color, and so out of the ordinary in terms of what she might choose herself but rather flattering nonetheless. Clearly this Admirer has considered her at length to be able to pick something so atypical yet fitting. The book?
Well the book is godawful. But there's very little on The Unnamed Club's shelves in relation to Tevinter, so perhaps the individual in question simply perceived a potential oversight. After all, it wouldn't do to appear narrowly read in the face of scrutiny by the likes of Val de Fonce or whatever other self-important scholars might eventually find themselves in Riftwatch and therefore to The Unnamed Club's reading room. Once it was finished. And officially inducted into the organization's service. And--
Anyway, the sentiment is very kind indeed. The fact that it has no clear owner, however, is infuriating.]
I detest secrets. [--Wysteria says loudly to the very empty room.]
Well the book is godawful. But there's very little on The Unnamed Club's shelves in relation to Tevinter, so perhaps the individual in question simply perceived a potential oversight. After all, it wouldn't do to appear narrowly read in the face of scrutiny by the likes of Val de Fonce or whatever other self-important scholars might eventually find themselves in Riftwatch and therefore to The Unnamed Club's reading room. Once it was finished. And officially inducted into the organization's service. And--
Anyway, the sentiment is very kind indeed. The fact that it has no clear owner, however, is infuriating.]
I detest secrets. [--Wysteria says loudly to the very empty room.]
Hey.
[ Greetings, as usual, sound more like a call for attention than a 'hi, how are you?', and now is no different, if a little more muted. By now, it's been a few days since Howard Stark ineffably vanished off the face of Thedas.
And if Wysteria wasn't expecting to talk about it at any point-- ]
So, Stark.
[ Greetings, as usual, sound more like a call for attention than a 'hi, how are you?', and now is no different, if a little more muted. By now, it's been a few days since Howard Stark ineffably vanished off the face of Thedas.
And if Wysteria wasn't expecting to talk about it at any point-- ]
So, Stark.
I am perfectly well. It's very kind of you to ask. Riftwatch could do with rather more polite young ladies like yourself.
[She is perfectly chipper! In delightful good cheer! Nothing has ever been wrong in her entire life!]
[She is perfectly chipper! In delightful good cheer! Nothing has ever been wrong in her entire life!]
Edited 2020-03-06 02:24 (UTC)
[ The door of the Hightown residence slams open.
Tony stands there for a moment, recovering from the absolute fucking deluge he's just traipsed through. The hooded cloak he's thrown over his clothes only half-helped and now runs with water to puddle around his feet as Drakonis rains fall silver behind him.
Then, he steps in, pushing back the hood and making a cursory effort to fix wet-curled hair as he kicks the door closed. Under an arm is a half-crushed box from that one place that does breakfast pastries, and a leather scroll case wedged at the corner of his elbow. ]
Umbrellas! [ he yells, as a means of announcing his arrival. Quieter; ] Put it on the list.
Tony stands there for a moment, recovering from the absolute fucking deluge he's just traipsed through. The hooded cloak he's thrown over his clothes only half-helped and now runs with water to puddle around his feet as Drakonis rains fall silver behind him.
Then, he steps in, pushing back the hood and making a cursory effort to fix wet-curled hair as he kicks the door closed. Under an arm is a half-crushed box from that one place that does breakfast pastries, and a leather scroll case wedged at the corner of his elbow. ]
Umbrellas! [ he yells, as a means of announcing his arrival. Quieter; ] Put it on the list.
[In reply: a whole lot of nothing. The kitchen and its attached workspace are quiet, though from the damp red cloak on the hook by the door and the embers humming in the hearth the house isn't empty.
Instead Wysteria is in the library - or what is clearly meant to be a library, had all its books not been stripped from the shelves and dumped in unorganized piles during some earlier cleaning project. She is sitting on the floor between such riveting titles as Economics of the Steel Age and Genitivi's Collected and Abridged Works, and is in the process of sorting the whole mess into more organized subsections. Here is history; there is theology; here is even more history. Evidently the previous owner of the house had been something of an armchair scholar, albeit a myopic one. She has yet to find even a single title on dwarven enchantment practices or thaig histories.
She does not look up when/if/should Tony appear in the doorway.]
Is there something you need, Mr. Stark?
[Thump. That's a dictionary being dumped into the Reference pile.]
Instead Wysteria is in the library - or what is clearly meant to be a library, had all its books not been stripped from the shelves and dumped in unorganized piles during some earlier cleaning project. She is sitting on the floor between such riveting titles as Economics of the Steel Age and Genitivi's Collected and Abridged Works, and is in the process of sorting the whole mess into more organized subsections. Here is history; there is theology; here is even more history. Evidently the previous owner of the house had been something of an armchair scholar, albeit a myopic one. She has yet to find even a single title on dwarven enchantment practices or thaig histories.
She does not look up when/if/should Tony appear in the doorway.]
Is there something you need, Mr. Stark?
[Thump. That's a dictionary being dumped into the Reference pile.]
Which naturally warrants no comment whatsoever from the recipient, however there is no trace of the book either on the table or anywhere else in the house.
It is not until some days later, upon the resolution of one of their afternoons spent squabbling over how best to organize a series of collected data, or over schematics, or over the necessity of installing a vent flume in the workshop to suck noxious smoke out from the house lest everyone risk being poisoned from Wysteria's continued alchemical efforts, that she calls him back with an, "Oh, Mr. Ellis! I'd almost forgotten," after Tony has already passed into the garden.
A book is produced from her satchel. It's a rather pretty-gone-worn copy of an old Free Marcher story about a group of pilgrims in service to a knight as he makes the tournament rounds, and the story each of them tells while on the road.
"It is thoroughly allegorical for the spread of the Chant. Though I warn you to be wary of the Seamstress's Story if you cannot stomach a little sharp writing concerning the Chantry's gender politics. She is very brash indeed. Now go on," she rolls her eyes toward the door. "Mr. Stark will be waiting for you."
There is a little note pressed in the book. On one side is a reading list - half are clearly dry scholarly essays on the nature of magic and the Fade, and half are religious texts thinly disguised as adventure and romance novels - and on the other is written:
It is not until some days later, upon the resolution of one of their afternoons spent squabbling over how best to organize a series of collected data, or over schematics, or over the necessity of installing a vent flume in the workshop to suck noxious smoke out from the house lest everyone risk being poisoned from Wysteria's continued alchemical efforts, that she calls him back with an, "Oh, Mr. Ellis! I'd almost forgotten," after Tony has already passed into the garden.
A book is produced from her satchel. It's a rather pretty-gone-worn copy of an old Free Marcher story about a group of pilgrims in service to a knight as he makes the tournament rounds, and the story each of them tells while on the road.
"It is thoroughly allegorical for the spread of the Chant. Though I warn you to be wary of the Seamstress's Story if you cannot stomach a little sharp writing concerning the Chantry's gender politics. She is very brash indeed. Now go on," she rolls her eyes toward the door. "Mr. Stark will be waiting for you."
There is a little note pressed in the book. On one side is a reading list - half are clearly dry scholarly essays on the nature of magic and the Fade, and half are religious texts thinly disguised as adventure and romance novels - and on the other is written:
Mr. Ellis,
Thank you sincerely for the book. I have only read two or three of the stories so far, but they are all quite pleasant and dashing. You will have to give me a list of your own recommendations when you have the opportunity.
In the mean time, I have written down a few titles which I found interesting when I first arrived in Thedas. I'm curious what someone who has lived here all their lives might think of them. I expect that most of them are either too basic to be of real interest or the niche selections of someone who does not know the field and so is just making selections at random but nevertheless: I have enjoyed them, and I hope they are not too dull for your taste.
Most Sincerely,
Miss W.A. Poppell
P.S. I must remind you that we have since reformed the rules for the proper handling of caustic and flammable solutions, and so the likelihood of me destroying your book is very low. Please treat this one with similar care. Thank you.
Hey, you know that like skull in a jar that talks?
[ Fitz never assumes he's alone in the house. He's still not sure how many rooms there are, and he's lost count of the number of times he's been startled mid-thought by a small explosion or obnoxiously loud chatter from between thin walls and floorboards. Even now, when it's 3-something a.m. and he hasn't seen any proof of life since 10. If nothing else, there's always the ghost.
So he's not surprised when he wanders into the kitchen and finds it occupied by a few low candles and Wysteria, but he hesitates: comes to a slow stop in the doorway, gives the kettle an inconspicuous glance before looking to her. ]
Is there any tea left?
[ anyway that's a bunch of words to say you know when you sneak into the kitchen at 3am for some ill-advised ice cream and your roommate's already in there, that ]
So he's not surprised when he wanders into the kitchen and finds it occupied by a few low candles and Wysteria, but he hesitates: comes to a slow stop in the doorway, gives the kettle an inconspicuous glance before looking to her. ]
Is there any tea left?
[ anyway that's a bunch of words to say you know when you sneak into the kitchen at 3am for some ill-advised ice cream and your roommate's already in there, that ]
[She is seated at the kitchen table with its overflowing assortment of papers and schematics and suspicious looking things in jars, and has before her an open leather bound folio spilling from which are countless further documents and a side slip of paper upon which she is slowly, tediously, with all the enthusiasm of 3-something-a.m., scratching out maths. She jumps when he speaks, pen jagging in a hard line across the row of her sums.]
Good gods, Mr. Fitz! I thought you were the spirit. [She hurries to blot up the excess ink with a corner of whatever piece of paper is most convenient, and finds herself summarily in the possession of two records covered in black smears.] And no. It's back to chicory coffee.
[That bitter agent of necessity.]
Good gods, Mr. Fitz! I thought you were the spirit. [She hurries to blot up the excess ink with a corner of whatever piece of paper is most convenient, and finds herself summarily in the possession of two records covered in black smears.] And no. It's back to chicory coffee.
[That bitter agent of necessity.]
[--which is really a list, written on a dirty scrap of paper that was then tucked inside a beautiful envelope and sealed closed with an elaborate embossed seal that depicts two slender dragons, nose-to-tail, coiled around the edge of the seal, and in the center a library tower that would be familiar to anyone who was a student of the University of Orlais and (as if all that were not enough), a beautifully scripted Orlesian phrase that translates to, Open Me!
The dirty paper is somewhat of a let-down after all that.]
Nᴏᴍɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴs:
Fɪᴛᴢ -- sᴜʀɴᴀᴍᴇ? Is ᴛʜɪs ʜɪs ɢɪᴠᴇɴ ɴᴀᴍᴇ?
Tʜᴇ Aᴍʙᴀssᴀᴅᴏʀ (ᴍᴀɴ)
Sᴇʀ Lᴜᴄɪᴇɴ Aᴍᴏᴜʀ Lʏᴏɴ ᴅᴜ Lʏᴏɴ -- ᴄʀɪᴍᴇs?
Bᴀsᴛɪᴇɴ (sᴛᴏʀɪᴇs, ᴄʜᴀʀᴍɪɴɢ)
Cᴍᴅʀ. Fʟɪɴᴛ
Nᴇʟʟ Vᴏss
Eɴᴏʀᴍᴏᴜs Mᴀʀᴄʜᴇʀ
Lᴀᴅʏ Qᴜɴᴀʀɪ (!)
Pᴇᴛʀᴀɴᴀ ᴅᴇ Cᴇᴅᴏᴜx
-Tᴀᴋᴇ sᴛᴏᴄᴋ ᴏғ ɴᴇᴡ ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴀʟs
- Dᴡᴀʀғ ғᴏʀ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇsᴛ? Iᴍᴘᴏʀᴛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇsᴛɪɴɢ ᴅᴡᴀʀғ?
- Eʟғ ғᴏʀ ᴅᴠsʀᴛ.
- Mᴏʀᴇ Rɪғᴛᴇʀs?
[The list is unsigned but how could anyone mistake its origin.]
The dirty paper is somewhat of a let-down after all that.]
Nᴏᴍɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴs:
Fɪᴛᴢ -- sᴜʀɴᴀᴍᴇ? Is ᴛʜɪs ʜɪs ɢɪᴠᴇɴ ɴᴀᴍᴇ?
Tʜᴇ Aᴍʙᴀssᴀᴅᴏʀ (ᴍᴀɴ)
Sᴇʀ Lᴜᴄɪᴇɴ Aᴍᴏᴜʀ Lʏᴏɴ ᴅᴜ Lʏᴏɴ -- ᴄʀɪᴍᴇs?
Bᴀsᴛɪᴇɴ (sᴛᴏʀɪᴇs, ᴄʜᴀʀᴍɪɴɢ)
Cᴍᴅʀ. Fʟɪɴᴛ
Nᴇʟʟ Vᴏss
Eɴᴏʀᴍᴏᴜs Mᴀʀᴄʜᴇʀ
Lᴀᴅʏ Qᴜɴᴀʀɪ (!)
Pᴇᴛʀᴀɴᴀ ᴅᴇ Cᴇᴅᴏᴜx
-Tᴀᴋᴇ sᴛᴏᴄᴋ ᴏғ ɴᴇᴡ ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴀʟs
- Dᴡᴀʀғ ғᴏʀ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇsᴛ? Iᴍᴘᴏʀᴛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇsᴛɪɴɢ ᴅᴡᴀʀғ?
- Eʟғ ғᴏʀ ᴅᴠsʀᴛ.
- Mᴏʀᴇ Rɪғᴛᴇʀs?
[The list is unsigned but how could anyone mistake its origin.]
[Upon receipt and review, the dirty scrap of parchment is turned over in the vain hope that something more promising will be written on the other side despite having been privy to the gentleman's efforts—if so generous a word might be applied—over the sending crystals. Finding none, Wysteria takes great pleasure in reducing the beautiful envelope into the finest confetti, and melting down the seal so she might reuse the wax for closing the tri-folded bit of parchment upon which she writes her own reply.
It appears in his mail cubby which by some miracle has escaped unscathed from any possession related excitement. Maker only knows if he checks his mail. In her rather lovely handwriting, it reads—]
It appears in his mail cubby which by some miracle has escaped unscathed from any possession related excitement. Maker only knows if he checks his mail. In her rather lovely handwriting, it reads—]
I have received your list.
-W.A. Poppell
[ On whatever desk she favours in the Hightown manor is a curled bundle of loose leaf pieces of parchment, tied today.
Once investigated, she will find several precise sketches and shorthanded notes that look vaguely familiar but assembled into something that is not. Here are the metals and minerals needed to convert the energy generated from the lyrium reactor into operable runic enchantments, but here also are the articulated moving parts to trigger them. Some of the principles of her own work in the outercasing of her gun has been lifted and adapted. As well as that, she'd recognise Tony Stark's spiky handwriting in shorthanded notes, such as, ^heat problem = aurum (f.t.) inner casing (?).
What the final product is is not immediately clear.
One final scrap of paper drifts after, on which is written; ]
you ever think about going home?
Once investigated, she will find several precise sketches and shorthanded notes that look vaguely familiar but assembled into something that is not. Here are the metals and minerals needed to convert the energy generated from the lyrium reactor into operable runic enchantments, but here also are the articulated moving parts to trigger them. Some of the principles of her own work in the outercasing of her gun has been lifted and adapted. As well as that, she'd recognise Tony Stark's spiky handwriting in shorthanded notes, such as, ^heat problem = aurum (f.t.) inner casing (?).
What the final product is is not immediately clear.
One final scrap of paper drifts after, on which is written; ]
you ever think about going home?
Edited 2020-08-24 10:38 (UTC)
[The notes are interrogated, turned over, and questioned again. One or two sheets are copied, certain runic notes corrected—I believe you will want a hook here, not an straight line unless you are meaning to combine force and stop, etcetera etcetera—and no doubt a series of pointed inquiries are posed should Tony make the mistake of spending more than ten uninterrupted minutes in her presence.
Otherwise, the corrected sheets left on his desk in the Project Felandaris offices under whatever makeshift paperweight is most convenient.]
Otherwise, the corrected sheets left on his desk in the Project Felandaris offices under whatever makeshift paperweight is most convenient.]
Mr. Stark,
I have made some notes. These are all very theoretical, so a proper enchanter or smith may have more insight.
The mechanism is cleverly done, whatever it is for.
Best Wishes,
W.A. Poppell
P.S. With respect to your question, no. Not particularly.
[Appearing in her post box (if hers was fortunate enough to escape being destroyed by the abomination), or with other mail destined for her, or simply slipped under the door of whatever room Raas might call her own, is a cream colored envelope with a simple pale pink seal. The paper inside is rather fine, and the handwriting exceptional. It reads—]
Serah,
I am writing to extend my unalloyed best wishes for the fall season to you and yours, and to cordially issue an invitation to join myself and a few other select members of Riftwatch for an evening of dinner, dancing, and entertainment at the close of Kingsway.
This event has been arranged as a means to raise funds for the benefit of Riftwatch. Though a member of the Research Division and acting Assistant to the Seneschal, I have organized this benefit purely independently in the hopes of soliciting the good will of individuals who may, for whatever reason, typically not feel disposed to offer contributions to the organization. Nonetheless, I would be most grateful for your participation and engagement in this endeavor; indeed, your presence is vital to the evening's success.
If you are bold enough to accept this invitation, you will be rewarded handsomely with an excellent meal and very fine company shared in the setting of one of Kirkwall's finest estates, and will be required to perform no work more taxing than pleasant conversation (to whatever degree you find most appealing).
Please respond at your earliest convenience. Festivities will begin promptly at sundown on the selected date. All guests are encouraged to dress to their best advantage.
With Thanks,
Miss Wysteria A. Poppell
Research Division
Assistant to the Seneschal
Project Felandaris
Left on the kitchen table the day before Satinalia:
A parcel of medium size, wrapped in white paper. Upon opening it, there is first a folded knit shawl of dark and light blues, with delicate detailing along the edges finishing in cord and tassels at two ends. Wrapped within the shawl is a wooden jewelry box, exterior carved with intricate, overlapping rudbekia blooms, interior laid with velvet and a small mirror affixed to the hinged lid. Inside, a necklace of painted wooden beads in varying shades of pinks and reds, alongside a gold bracelet set with a pink stone that almost but doesn’t quite match the shades in the necklace. Small piece of parchment tucked along the side seam; unfolded, in Ellis’ handwriting, is a copied over poem.
There is no note.
I think your survey's a good idea, but I doubt I can say anything you don't already know.
[ so surely he doesn't...need to...do this....
also, hi, this isn't awkward. ]
[ so surely he doesn't...need to...do this....
also, hi, this isn't awkward. ]
Edited (less clunky phrasing ) 2021-01-29 04:40 (UTC)
[Somewhere, Wysteria has only recently parted company with Erik. Of all the things she anticipates to first receive over the crystals - a thinly veiled 'None of your business,' or some hurdle of mockery perhaps? -, this hardly ranks.
So. Well. A moment's pause. And then, adopting a tone of brightest good cheer--]
Not at all. You must make a record of the thing regardless, Mister Holden. The papers will not only be for my benefit. It should be readily referenced by anyone who wishes to study the matter.
So. Well. A moment's pause. And then, adopting a tone of brightest good cheer--]
Not at all. You must make a record of the thing regardless, Mister Holden. The papers will not only be for my benefit. It should be readily referenced by anyone who wishes to study the matter.
[ Not too long after this, there will be tea. The first opportunity for the tea service she uses in spring: gilded edges, early-blooming flowers delicately rendered on the porcelain. There's even a little bouquet of the first primroses snipped from the garden for the table.
The requisite chatter; Kirkwall's perennially awful weather and the one nice day, the work the winter has done to fix last summer's crimes against their complexions, whether or not the sun and wind shielding effects and innate mystery of bonnets are worth not having proper peripheral vision. Then the second cup. Much like the second glass of wine it is traditionally for gossip, and Alexandrie is using the excuse of concentrating on pouring it to leave space in case Wysteria will broach the subject of the argument herself sans prompting. ]
The requisite chatter; Kirkwall's perennially awful weather and the one nice day, the work the winter has done to fix last summer's crimes against their complexions, whether or not the sun and wind shielding effects and innate mystery of bonnets are worth not having proper peripheral vision. Then the second cup. Much like the second glass of wine it is traditionally for gossip, and Alexandrie is using the excuse of concentrating on pouring it to leave space in case Wysteria will broach the subject of the argument herself sans prompting. ]
[It is all if it a very fine arrangement, even here so early in Spring that the weather hardly agrees with the term. There can be no sitting on the veranda in the slightly too bitter fresh air, and so they take their tea there in one of the house's fine sitting rooms with the curtains drawn away from the window to allow them to pretend that the sunlight makes for a warm afternoon.
When the second cup is poured, Wysteria is ready.]
Did you know that Athessa was rather put out about the little fête you were so kind as to host here on my behalf? She gave me quite the scolding.
When the second cup is poured, Wysteria is ready.]
Did you know that Athessa was rather put out about the little fête you were so kind as to host here on my behalf? She gave me quite the scolding.
Oh! Well, yes I suppose we might. A cover page for the collection, at the very least.
Truth be told, Mister Stevens, I'm uncertain if we managed to solicit enough responses to draw any very firm conclusions. But I suppose all information is good information...
Truth be told, Mister Stevens, I'm uncertain if we managed to solicit enough responses to draw any very firm conclusions. But I suppose all information is good information...
A package wrapped in paper is delivered to the house in Hightown with a note:
The paper is wrapped around a roll of cheesecloth; the cloth is wrapped around a stout column of yellow bone scraped (mostly) clean of meat and cartilage. It is heavy, faintly sticky, and stinks tolerably of rot. A small accompanying roll of parchment reads:
Miss Poppell,
Unrelated to your announcement.
The paper is wrapped around a roll of cheesecloth; the cloth is wrapped around a stout column of yellow bone scraped (mostly) clean of meat and cartilage. It is heavy, faintly sticky, and stinks tolerably of rot. A small accompanying roll of parchment reads:
left proximal phalanx, stormrider f
cloudreach 9:47
thenuviet estate, orlais
d dickerson.
[A very excitable note stuffed into his mail cubby the following day reads:]
Dear Mister Dickerson,
Thank you sincerely for the very fine bone you had sent to the Hightown house. I have never before processed any bones, and I am enthusiastically looking forward to the practice. I am very eager to find a use for it and, unrelated announcements not withstanding, I believe a particular Orlesian will be incredibly jealous which pleases me immensely. You have given me a gift twice over.
I hope your cat is well. Please allow me to study her at your convenience.
Warmest Regards,
W.A. Poppell
P.S. Please do come to the Vinmarks with us though.
Dear Mister Dickerson,
Thank you sincerely for the very fine bone you had sent to the Hightown house. I have never before processed any bones, and I am enthusiastically looking forward to the practice. I am very eager to find a use for it and, unrelated announcements not withstanding, I believe a particular Orlesian will be incredibly jealous which pleases me immensely. You have given me a gift twice over.
I hope your cat is well. Please allow me to study her at your convenience.
Warmest Regards,
W.A. Poppell
P.S. Please do come to the Vinmarks with us though.
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