Left in the center of the table (just beside the scorch marks) is a volume of Orlesian folk tales: lots of chevaliers and courtly love and daring quests.
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:
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.
It takes Ellis the better part of two weeks to read Wysteria's suggestion, carrying it with him to the training yard and along for his shifts on the watch. Reading it is laborious, though not for the reasons Wysteria had probably anticipated. (The last time he'd read this had been as a boy, in his home, aloud at the table while his mother baked bread.) The book is returned, unharmed, to the kitchen table with a neatly folded piece of parchment inside the front cover.
Wysteria,
I read a selection of tales from this collection when I was younger. I don't remember having an opinion on it then, but being better traveled and years older, I understand much better the tales from the Seamstress and her companions.
The first suggestion on your list, regarding the wandering Orlesian and his travels across each part of Thedas, has been interesting so far. We can talk about it tomorrow after I finish pulling out remains of the broken fountain out of your garden.
And so they do. It's one of those grey and wet that have been so typical of the season, so that despite the tarpaulin stretched over most of where Ellis spends a few hours uprooting and chipping out old water features there really is no avoiding the damp and the chill and the mud.
She makes him take his boots off just inside the door (which is fair, as hers are there too), but afterward it is all sitting near the kitchen's big broad fireplace to dry out socks and overcoats and so on as they discuss - or rather, Wysteria chatters at length given the slightest provocation over - the adventures of the brave and exceedingly foolish Ser Chimérique and how and where they tie in places to the book of Orlesian folk lore he first lent her. There is hot apple cider - they are all resolutely sick of the earthy chicory tea - and a sleeve of cheap molasses cookies, and it is a perfectly pleasant way to spend an hour or two away from both bitter weather and the annoyingly stubborn engineering conundrum which currently is spread all over her worktable.
When they are finished, as dictated by the time it takes to dry wool socks by the fire, his book of daahing Orlesian folklore is returned with interest in the form of a publication on Ferelden bedtime stories for children and their ties to pre-Ferelden Almarri oral storytelling. It's one of those essays that is more footnote than body, and includes a short note tucked between its pages:
Mr. Ellis,
I would very much like your opinion on this as I imagine the source material is far more familiar to you than it is to me. If you are up for it, and if you have any knowledge and memory of any of the referenced tales, I would appreciate a personal accounting or your favorite reference material. The scholar in question notes several source texts, but I've yet to find one either in Riftwatch's library or in any of the Kirkwall bookseller and so could made do with a third-hand-first-hand-account, if you will.
Nothing is said of the essay for two weeks. It could even be assumed that Ellis had mislaid it, or gotten distracted with the business of escorting a trio of squabbling merchants (triplets, each with a stake in their mother's goat farm) and their flock from Kirkwall to Ostwick.
The essay itself is not challenging. It's the request accompanying it that gives him pause, and a week chasing goats and hauling carts along muddy roads is a good excuse to think. When he returns it's with a bottle of decent wine, as if his return from this minor excursion should be celebrated. They put out one minor chemical fire that night, and before he leaves Ellis takes a sheaf of parchment from the inner pocket of his coat and puts it on the table.
Each page is covered in Ellis' cramped scribbles, headed with carefully printed block letters and underlined in a thick slash. Ten titles in all, ranging from The Bann of Balmachie's Wife to The Page-Boy and the Silver Goblet to The Tale of the Crow. Folded and set at the front of the papers:
Wysteria,
Most of the stories I knew from childhood are better recited aloud around the fire. I've written down for you the ones I know best, in addition to the Fisherman and the Merman and the Doomed Rider. I'll try to think on the others.
The next reading she gives him is not a book at all. Instead it is a rambling quasi letter-essay of her own writing, which goes on for ten front and back pages in Wysteria's (frankly) lovely handwriting ruminating in the connective tissue between a selection of five of his carefully recorded Ferelden stories with a series of similar from Orlais. Questions posed (and debated) include: The effect of the Orlesian occupation on stories passed down from Almarri oral traditions; where in this do the Avvar figure?; how significant is it that these stories has assumed Orlesian traits, but the reverse seems so much less common?
(A note in the margins alongside that last bit: 'Mr. Ellis, Have you known a single Orlesian who wasn't at least a little dreadful?')
Towards the ends, the essay once more turns into a letter. It says:
...all of which, I suppose, is to say that I'm quite thankful for all the work involved with copying down the stories in question. I believe I may even consult Lady Asgard or, Andraste preserve me, Monsieur de Foncé on the subject. I could afford to have some subject on which to engage the man that does not involve either our work or his truly insurmountable ego. I believe he would relish in the opportunity to treat me as a child, and I am learning to take advantage of how high he holds his nose in the air.
Your Friend, W.A. Poppell
P.S. Do you enjoy poetry, Mr. Ellis? I read a piece by TatervallianTantaven Tantervalen (?) Chantry Brother who evidently spent his boyhood traveling and some of the lines reminded me pleasantly of that field trip we took last week with Mr. Stark and Mr. Fitz, that week end when the weather was so pleasant and Mr. Stark arranged to nearly fall off that cliff. I have copied it on the facing page and marked the lines.
(They are in relation to the weather, less so the cliff. In case you were concerned.)
Without complaint, Ellis reads all ten (technically twenty) pages of Wysteria's analysis. He considers whether or not the library has some kind of instructional book on interrogating hidden meaning in literature, if only so he has something worthwhile to contribute to what may or may not be an ongoing project.
He folds her essay in threes, poem turned and set on the top of the stack so as to be the first thing one saw when they opened the pages, and puts it with the rest of Wysteria's letters.
There is a minor setback in the delivery of his next recommendation. He came by a long Nevarran tale written all in verse that felt suitable and potentially interesting (based on his instincts and vague grasp of the points she'd raised in her essay) at a bookstall. Purchasing it is no trouble, but he's caught in a downpour on his way back to the Gallows, and when he removes his coat the book is so sodden it comes apart in his hands.
Cue another week searching, until he comes across another copy by chance while lagging behind Fitz on a search for a certain chemical that Ellis suspects will prove the need for completion of that vent in Wysteria's cellar sooner rather than later.
He sets the book down on the table at her elbow before he takes his place at the other end of the table. The slightly crumpled note poking out of the pages reads:
Wysteria,
I haven't read this one myself, but the bookseller told me it was about a man far from his country and his many travels and discoveries on his way back to his home, children and wife. It's a long poem, and not as evocative of our life as your selection, but the description was engaging.
The book is forgotten over the course of the small war being waged over the table on the subject of low level Fade-iation emission levels from rift shards. It's only once the evening has resolved, their party dispersed, that she realizes the book is there at all.
It is a very long poem, containing enough references to Nevarran literature with which she is unfamiliar enough as to warrant a little extracurricular reading alongside it. While she is reading, the weather finally begins to clear. The house's library, long dismantled, is at last put to rights. She borrows a modest sum of money from a lender in Kirkwall to cover her monthly payment to the Viscount's office in the interest of resolving the administrative costs of the estate and the continued investment of her solicitor to oversee the former. Someone defaces all the newly installed mail cubbies in the Gallows. In sum: the usual assortment of things.
When at last she returns the book, it is in the company of a little chapter book of farmer's prayers which are variations of good luck wishes and old wives tale superstition as much as they are anything to do with Andraste or the Maker.
The accompanying note is simple. On one side it reads:
Mr. Ellis,
I think these are very sweet. Please enjoy them.
Sincerely, W.A. Poppell
And on the other, as if she thought to write it only after having trimmed the note, it asks:
At some point, he probably should have anticipated the question. Tony has seemed content not to ask too much about Ellis' history and relations, and Wysteria has been happy to talk about a wide range of things that do not include familial ties, but inevitably the thought would occur one of them that Ellis may actually have relations here. But still, he isn't prepared. (And in the end, tucks the note away with the rest, and does not consult it when he begins to draft his reply.)
He has a few days to consider it. There are three days of chilly, drizzly weather in which Ellis is charged with leading drills in the training yard. Progress on the vent out of Wysteria's root cellar awaits a part that Tony has ordered, and clearing out the attic ends in a minor flurry of knick-knacks flung at all three of them when Ellis and Fitz try to shift an armoire towards the staircase.
Three books are drawn out of the breast pocket of Ellis' coat before he follows Fitz out the door. He puts them directly into Wysteria's hands, and promises to finish up with the armoire in the morning. The note is tucked between the returned copy of epic Nevarran poetry, the book of prayers, and the very latest serial out of Orlais about a noblewoman posing as a knight to win the hand of her lady love.
Wysteria,
Please add the Nevarran poetry to your library. I don't have enough room for a library in my quarters in the Gallows, and I think you'll make better use of the book than I will. (We'll fix the rest of the shelves next week.)
The prayer book was charming, as you said. I've had little time to visit the bookseller stalls, but if I happen across it I know of one collection of Marcher devotions that is comparable. I know how you enjoy making connections in your reading. In the meantime, I borrowed this serial from one of the guards I've been on rotation with. You'll have to tell me if it's as riveting as he claimed.
— Ellis
There is nothing noted on the back, nor any postscript.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
delivery
Scribbly note—
Try not to spill anything flammable on this.
no subject
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:
no subject
no subject
She makes him take his boots off just inside the door (which is fair, as hers are there too), but afterward it is all sitting near the kitchen's big broad fireplace to dry out socks and overcoats and so on as they discuss - or rather, Wysteria chatters at length given the slightest provocation over - the adventures of the brave and exceedingly foolish Ser Chimérique and how and where they tie in places to the book of Orlesian folk lore he first lent her. There is hot apple cider - they are all resolutely sick of the earthy chicory tea - and a sleeve of cheap molasses cookies, and it is a perfectly pleasant way to spend an hour or two away from both bitter weather and the annoyingly stubborn engineering conundrum which currently is spread all over her worktable.
When they are finished, as dictated by the time it takes to dry wool socks by the fire, his book of daahing Orlesian folklore is returned with interest in the form of a publication on Ferelden bedtime stories for children and their ties to pre-Ferelden Almarri oral storytelling. It's one of those essays that is more footnote than body, and includes a short note tucked between its pages:
no subject
The essay itself is not challenging. It's the request accompanying it that gives him pause, and a week chasing goats and hauling carts along muddy roads is a good excuse to think. When he returns it's with a bottle of decent wine, as if his return from this minor excursion should be celebrated. They put out one minor chemical fire that night, and before he leaves Ellis takes a sheaf of parchment from the inner pocket of his coat and puts it on the table.
Each page is covered in Ellis' cramped scribbles, headed with carefully printed block letters and underlined in a thick slash. Ten titles in all, ranging from The Bann of Balmachie's Wife to The Page-Boy and the Silver Goblet to The Tale of the Crow. Folded and set at the front of the papers:
no subject
(A note in the margins alongside that last bit: 'Mr. Ellis, Have you known a single Orlesian who wasn't at least a little dreadful?')
Towards the ends, the essay once more turns into a letter. It says:
no subject
He folds her essay in threes, poem turned and set on the top of the stack so as to be the first thing one saw when they opened the pages, and puts it with the rest of Wysteria's letters.
There is a minor setback in the delivery of his next recommendation. He came by a long Nevarran tale written all in verse that felt suitable and potentially interesting (based on his instincts and vague grasp of the points she'd raised in her essay) at a bookstall. Purchasing it is no trouble, but he's caught in a downpour on his way back to the Gallows, and when he removes his coat the book is so sodden it comes apart in his hands.
Cue another week searching, until he comes across another copy by chance while lagging behind Fitz on a search for a certain chemical that Ellis suspects will prove the need for completion of that vent in Wysteria's cellar sooner rather than later.
He sets the book down on the table at her elbow before he takes his place at the other end of the table. The slightly crumpled note poking out of the pages reads:
no subject
It is a very long poem, containing enough references to Nevarran literature with which she is unfamiliar enough as to warrant a little extracurricular reading alongside it. While she is reading, the weather finally begins to clear. The house's library, long dismantled, is at last put to rights. She borrows a modest sum of money from a lender in Kirkwall to cover her monthly payment to the Viscount's office in the interest of resolving the administrative costs of the estate and the continued investment of her solicitor to oversee the former. Someone defaces all the newly installed mail cubbies in the Gallows. In sum: the usual assortment of things.
When at last she returns the book, it is in the company of a little chapter book of farmer's prayers which are variations of good luck wishes and old wives tale superstition as much as they are anything to do with Andraste or the Maker.
The accompanying note is simple. On one side it reads:
And on the other, as if she thought to write it only after having trimmed the note, it asks:
no subject
He has a few days to consider it. There are three days of chilly, drizzly weather in which Ellis is charged with leading drills in the training yard. Progress on the vent out of Wysteria's root cellar awaits a part that Tony has ordered, and clearing out the attic ends in a minor flurry of knick-knacks flung at all three of them when Ellis and Fitz try to shift an armoire towards the staircase.
Three books are drawn out of the breast pocket of Ellis' coat before he follows Fitz out the door. He puts them directly into Wysteria's hands, and promises to finish up with the armoire in the morning. The note is tucked between the returned copy of epic Nevarran poetry, the book of prayers, and the very latest serial out of Orlais about a noblewoman posing as a knight to win the hand of her lady love.There is nothing noted on the back, nor any postscript.