"Too much so, perhaps." For once in his life he doesn’t gesture. Splashing is rude. "It's madness to do a thing over, and look for a different result. But what do you name it when you expect an outcome, and you’re still disappointed?”
Ellis almost says a waste of time. But that seems unkind, so he casts about for a better answer. There is some measure of discontent that Ellis can observe, even if he isn't certain of how to approach it.
"Are you bored?" Ellis asks finally, skirting around a question he feels would be too personal to ask. (Are you unhappy?)
Now that's interesting. It diverts Ellis from wherever he was initially going (noncomittaly towards elfroot) to some broader interest. It shows in his face.
"Human malice," Is the poetic answer. But his chin tips, can’t take it seriously enough to keep from adding: "And several weeks’ distillation, a concentrating agent — its own trouble, let me assure you — to say nothing of luck in the settling."
"When someone is poisoned, it isn't as a duel." Some moment of anger. "You have to mean it for longer than most."
There's a flicker of confusion at the jump in topic. Poisons to bathwater to stories. Ellis flicks his fingers in the water, watching the ripples before looking back to Isaac.
"I'm Fereldan."
Which says a bit on it's own, really. Ferelden is nothing if not well-branded.
"But we heard a fair amount about chevaliers and such alongside our dog stories. Why?"
"Jader is not so distant as she imagines. A few dogs crept in," The shadow of a smile. "But always, there was a fox."
"The Chevalier slays the wyvern. His wife dips a cup in its blood," A loose snap of his fingers. His wife slays him. "A servant spies his master's enemy. He cuts fine flowers,"
There's little difference, really. Ellis has heard long winding tales sung around a bonfire, and found them latter in Kirkwall's library written down as poems.
Maybe the real question is about Isaac, if Ellis' assumption that he's Orlesian is true.
"Oh, stories out of books." Doubtless, they were songs first, poems first; fables in the crib. Mages are raised on books. "But it's all the same anthem, really. That venom runs in the national character."
"I only heard the sweetest parts of it," Ellis says. "And the places I went in Orlais weren't so..."
He trails off, shrugs.
If there was venom, it wasn't as velvet-wrapped as the stories made it out to have been. The rougher, poorer parts of Orlais are far removed from every part of the stories he'd grown up with.
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"Too much so, perhaps." For once in his life he doesn’t gesture. Splashing is rude. "It's madness to do a thing over, and look for a different result. But what do you name it when you expect an outcome, and you’re still disappointed?”
Depression, probably. But this Thedas.
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"Are you bored?" Ellis asks finally, skirting around a question he feels would be too personal to ask. (Are you unhappy?)
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The Qun invades. A plague of dancing. Sea serpents in the harbor. Another kidnapping, but this time, only the gingers.
"My money's on gangrene."
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Somewhere, Sawbones snaps a quill in half.
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That's probably illustration enough.
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Where does a conversation go after cursory contemplation of frostbitten dicks?
"Do you keep a garden, Isaac?"
Apparently it swerves wildly.
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The sort he doesn't trust for public consumption.
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Because there's probably a difference, Ellis assumes. Most people tend to have their side projects.
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"Rather the opposite of the clinic."
If they're being honest.
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"Poison?"
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A hand draws up, almost to cut across his throat. Right. Insensitive. He scratches vaguely at his jaw, instead.
"— Well."
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Ellis does not draw a hand across his throat, but the implication is pretty clear.
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"When someone is poisoned, it isn't as a duel." Some moment of anger. "You have to mean it for longer than most."
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A question posed that Ellis almost wants to take back, after it's spoken.
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"Don't drink the bathwater."
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"Wise advice even outside of poisonings."
Maybe? What else is he meant to say to that??
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This isn't quite a non-sequitur. Some patterns always repeat: Trickery, honour. Valorized in every culture — but not in equal measure.
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"I'm Fereldan."
Which says a bit on it's own, really. Ferelden is nothing if not well-branded.
"But we heard a fair amount about chevaliers and such alongside our dog stories. Why?"
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"The Chevalier slays the wyvern. His wife dips a cup in its blood," A loose snap of his fingers. His wife slays him. "A servant spies his master's enemy. He cuts fine flowers,"
He snaps again.
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There's little difference, really. Ellis has heard long winding tales sung around a bonfire, and found them latter in Kirkwall's library written down as poems.
Maybe the real question is about Isaac, if Ellis' assumption that he's Orlesian is true.
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He trails off, shrugs.
If there was venom, it wasn't as velvet-wrapped as the stories made it out to have been. The rougher, poorer parts of Orlais are far removed from every part of the stories he'd grown up with.
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Instead —
"Where did you travel?"
With the keen interest of a stationary man.
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Doubtful that anyone wants to hear about the Deep Roads, even if Ellis did care to speak candidly about it.
"But I traveled across the south, through to the Anderfels and back. It wasn't much about sight-seeing."
A little conciliatory.
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Releasing him of any obligation to recount it.
"At least, none to compare with Kirkwall — jewel of the North."
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