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[cozen]

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[cozen]

[ A quiet, surprised laugh. Is this a mage courtship ritual?? Regardless: it's great. ]

That bored, Monsieur?

[ Rhetorical. ]

You could write a random word. Bumpy, or... revenue. Let people ask him about it when he wakes up and never admit to it or explain it. Take it to your pyre and leave him with the mystery.

Or you could draw something obscene.

[wythersake]

Revenue. As a businessman, Monsieur, is that more or less obscene than taxes?

[cozen]

They are in fact the same obscenity. But it is pronounced revenue when gasped to a lover and taxes when spit in the street.

[wythersake]

Ah, to say both at once — très difficile. This must explain the Kirkwall accent.

[cozen]

[ He laughs, in a quiet way that's respectful of possible sleepers. ]

If anything can.

Do you miss Orlais, monsieur? It seems mages might have a different experience with it. With anywhere.

[wythersake]

Better a cell in Val Royeaux, than a palace in the Imperium —

[ dismissively route (orlesian, obviously). it's a fair question; he continues, more contemplative: ]

— You know. But a Circle isn't a cell, and I'd not seen the city until a year past. I might ask whether you miss the Marshes.

[ as an urban, uh, "printer" ]

[cozen]

I would take the Marshes.

[ He wouldn’t. Or like, maybe now. Over the jungle. But not over Kirkwall. ]

The White Spire was beautiful from the outside, at least—but that is not where you were.

[wythersake]

Montsimmard kept vines, [ flowering, climbing; never quite so high as to grasp. ] Lovely in spring. But I would not say that I knew the place.

Do you suppose that we know Kirkwall?