Fucking Trevelyans. Again. Again! One-hundred and fifty fucking years of absolute fucking nonsense. All because Bann Whatever decided to marry his salty pirate wench and split the family down the Maker-forsaken middle. Never mind that demons are pouring through holes all over the Southern Thedas, that Orlais is embroiled in a civil war, that both fucking Nevarra and Ferelden will be facing succession crises in the near future and that the economic bubble that we've seen in the past four years will be gone as soon as Kirkwall recovers because all the trade that came here in lieu of anywhere else to go will be gone. Never mind any of that, there is an age-old grudge that must be fought over! And we must do it by insulting each other's fucking COWS!
The circumstance would be absurdly humorous were it not for the fact that they appear intent to make a grand gesture of it. Already the Polsue family has declared for the Saltwater, while Marrak and Bligh have declared for the Plains. The Bayarts push for peace, influenced by Lady Osher, no doubt – she was born a Trevelyan. Pray the flaming Inquisition intervenes successfully; else I'll be forced to knock some heads together.
I can't deny that to do so would be a fucking relief.
-From the journal of Baldwin Carvosso, Teyrn of Ostwick, 9:41 Dragon.
Notes: The situation is pulled from the War Table operation: Mediate Between Ostwick Noble Families, which is also where I got the name Bayart. The rest of the names are of Cornish origin, just as Trevelyan is. Point of interest, Carvosso, the name I've chosen for the ruling family of Ostwick is believed to be from the Cornish for "walled hill-fort," which seemed appropriate.