Chapter Sixty-Three: Fruit of Revolution
The reception party of the Grand Conference was held at Camp Jerusalem, which was now a tent city of a much more salubrious kind than it had been during the winter. It was more than a little nostalgic actually, because it reminded me of the camps we set during the Sahrnia campaign, when all the chevalier lords had brought their attendants and suitable temporary accommodation.
Colourful canvas with all manner of coats of arms, faux-gold trimming (or in some cases actual gold trim), complete with all the mobile conveniences that noble and dwarven intellectuals had so far invented.
I shouldn't have been surprised. Nobles liked to hunt, and it was a craze that sent them travelling far and wide. Lion hunting on the Fields of Ghislain, wyvern stalking in the Western Approach, or even deer and halla chasing that was so popular in the borderlands with Ostwick. In fact, at that very moment, much of the Ostwicker nobility was within the borders of Valhalla pursuing that sport. Unfortunately, this was a fact unknown to us, due to just how rough the country was except for a narrow strip on the coast running from the Alba to Last Mount.
Needless to say, even Marcher nobles would rather haul the comforts of home with them into the field than camp out, with few exceptions.
The Orlesian pattern of nobility was very much dominant.
Speaking of which, the same held true for etiquette. Almost everyone donned masks or half masks for the occasion. Maximally fancy dress was worn by all, much to the changrin of Tam and Julie whom couldn't fit in Grey Warden armour nor Chancellorial dress due to their condition. Aurelia stepped in to make sure they were properly attired at the last minute, in the Orlesian mode no less. She may have freed all her slaves, but she was still a hugely rich person, and also received a stipend from the Imperium for her position as formal governor.
Tam looked damned good in her attire too. She wasn't having the wide skirt, she was too tall to pull it off, and so ended up wearing something like a poloneck that stretched all the way to her shins, with every curve exposed. In deep purple silk.
I'm trying to think of a suitable phrase, but all that comes to mind is a cartoon wolf whistling like Looney Tunes. It outshone Julie's red and blue number with a plunging neckline, but she didn't care, because she was enjoying Tam's purple just as much as I was. If not more, given her eyes kept wandering. Both wore half-masks with an eagle motif, Tam's in silver and Julie's in gold.
Aurelia kept to her black and yellow number, without a mask.
So, nothing held back. Our city might have been a construction site, but we were at least as cultured as our country of origin, that outshone anything in the Free Marches with ease.
Food and drink was provided at the expense of the Republic, Velerana having set aside a good amount of funds for it. Decent Orlesian wine, by the standards of the Marchers at any rate, coupled with freshly killed and excellently cooked venison, fish from the Bay of Dolphins, shellfish from the shoreline of the Isle of Dogs, bread and vegetables from the Arling of Amaranthine, mead from Redcliffe of all places; all appeared to be served, from a open space in the middle of the camp.
Army stoves in a circle, surrounded by tables to place the finished meals on, were worked hard to provide. It was the focal point of events, to say the least. The smell was fantastic, savoury and alcoholic in ways I thoroughly enjoyed.
Julie remarked that it was all a waste of money, but both Tam and I agreed that it was worth every penny even if it swayed not a single Marcher to our side. I think Julie was protesting too much as cover for how much she liked the venison, to be honest. Which is just like her.
The atmosphere was far more friendly than it had been the morning previous. Every one of the delegates that had been shown our weapons and had begged leave, each of them sent urgent messages back to their respective countries and organisations. When it became clear that we weren't going to stop them, they calmed down considerably.
For the most part, the delegates and our own people, including most of the Assembly and the officer corps, were drinking, eating and chatting in the afternoon sun. As if there wasn't a war for the soul of the continent burning through lives, or the cannon standing to strike down would-be enemies weren't pointed out at the ships of the visitors or the surrounding forest... or even at the camp itself.
My companions naturally spread out into groups.
Julie to the political group, with Velarana. To deal with the high and mighty.
Tam to the Grey Warden huddle, because pretty much the entire Order in the Marches showed up.
Leha to the merchants' groups, because a wise dealer can hear profit in the wind... and in the chatter of tongues loosened by booze.
Ciara bounced between everyone, but paid particular attention to the Dalish, recounting her experiences at top volume to them and lavishing us with praise.
The Tevinters kept to themselves, Aurelia and Marcus included. They had played the role of boogeyman and weren't interested in the opinions of the Marchers overly much.
Which leaves Armen and I. We found ourselves in a particularly interesting group of individuals, hard drinkers and conversationalists without compare, though perhaps I'm being too generous because the same group continues to join me for a cup even today, with a few notable additions.
Some you should already know.
Jean Le Carré. The same stubborn bastard that had held Halamshiral against the two sieges levied against it by the royalist factions.
McNulty, whom wanted to escape the cabal of plotting officers led by Soprano whom had occupied a corner and sealed it off with a few firelancers.
Mariette de Villars, because she had people wandering around eavesdropping and reporting to us both.
All in formal dress, and masked up. I put on the skull mask given to me by Louise, Armen had a mostly non-descript one in black that made him look like a stereotypical burglar. The Hamburglar, to be exact.
The three you might not know were a strange bunch, mismatched.
Two were a husband-wife combination.
Aristander and Ianthe Telmesso, dizzyingly high-ranking nobles from southern Antiva, members of a cadet branch of the royal family no less. Yet they lived permanently in Markham, just over the mountains. They introduced themselves as university professors: The University of Markham is the largest in Thedas, and arguably was the greatest centre of higher learning with only Val Royeaux and some of the Tevinter Circles to challenge the title.
I thought they had to be a noble marriage between cousins, hopefully not first cousins, as they looked so much alike. Both were in their early 30s, of average height, the husband a little taller than the wife, smaller than me or McNulty. They had the same, rich brown hair, lightly tanned skin, oval shaped faces and unremarkable brown eyes under half masks with owl feathers around the wide eye sockets. They were dressed both in a rich brown-red, a fine doublet for the monsieur and a frilly dress with the required wide skirt for the madame.
The feature that most inspired the idea that they could have almost been siblings was the spectacles. Benjamin Franklin type glasses, with two small circular rims connected by a high arch connecting them were the pattern of both of them, allowing the wearers to look over the glasses at you or look down at whatever they needed to read. Very useful in their profession.
The third and final drinker was very far from nobility; it was the same blonde, tattooed elf from the Kirkwall delegation that had watched the demonstration of arms. He was about Armen's height, lean but muscled, and dressed as he had been at that event, in leather and good quality cloth. Nothing to compare to the finery displayed by the Telmessos, but practical garb even for the event in question. He had been divested of weapons of course, but I very much doubt he had nothing to hand if something happened.
His name was Zevran Arainai, and he introduced himself as that and nothing else. Mariette stared at him for a moment, but said nothing, pointedly moving her twin daggers to a more accessible point on her belt, despite the wide-skirted dress and full face mask she had on, under a wide brimmed and feathered hat no less.
Conversation started off naturally about my personal situation. An icebreaker for things to come.
"So, I have discovered the truth at last," said Zevran Arainai, in his strangely familiar Antivan accent, "The rumours were right. It is said that the general of the Libertarian forces has collected a great variety of flowers around him, but does not hide them away in shame. There are many who speak of it as if it is a great scandal, but I have to say, I am impressed."
Whatever you say, Antonio Banderas.
The tattooed elf took a step closer to me, with appraising eyes. I'm not quite sure if I backed off, but I certainly wanted to. This wasn't the sort of attention I was used to.
Mariette and Armen immediately smiled at me, as if asking 'yeah, how about that?' with maximum sarcasm, knowing the truth of the matter as they did. Mariette's actual smile was covered, but her eyes glittered under the mask, and she was shaking slightly, trying to hold in a laugh. I struggled to find the words to respond to this.
"I-is that what they're saying about me?" I finally spouted at last, "I'm not sure if I should be flattered or if I should correct the record..."
Not a sufficient response for some.
"I am not sure it is anything to be proud of," said Ianthe Telmesso, giving me a glare over her glasses, "Could you not have just chosen one woman? Orlesian or not." Her accent was just as Antivan in depth as that of the elf, though it had a distinctly Italian or Greek slant to it, rather than Spanish. You get to navigate these sorts of things when soldiers from those places are trying to talk to you...
Zevran smiled, and turned his eye to the pair of academics.
"An interesting question," he said, "Which is the greater life? One where you are forced to eat the same meal, day after day? Or one where you can have of all the world's cuisine, choosing your favourites but tasting everything?"
Ianthe looked somewhat outraged at the suggestion, but Aristander calmed her by taking her hand softly. It worked remarkably well, indicating a level of trust between the two that I am not too big to admit made me a little envious. He then began to speak in an accent similar to that of his wife.
"Food and women are not the same thing," Aristander observed astutely and politely, "Your food doesn't wish to be chosen above all others, nor can it change its mind after you've eaten it. This applies to any one person you care to look to. Besides, women are something to be cherished, are they not? If that is your taste, that is."
The elf clearly hadn't been expecting such a serious response, and bowed in apology.
"It was merely a metaphor," Zevran said, "A defence of freedom of choice... Freedom to love. I do not mean to offend, only to celebrate."
"Then on that we are agreed," Ianthe replied quickly, "But if you'll permit me to be forward, Monsieur le Marquis, I worry about how unfair it is."
One thing about the Telmesso clan that you should be aware of is that they're never afraid to be 'forward' with their opinions. I'm sure, dear reader, that even if you are living centuries after I have put these words to paper that it is the case in your time as much as it was in mine.
Le Carré cleared his throat to get our attention, mine to be more specific, before speaking.
"Marquis, your … wives are indeed a subject of fascination among some in the ranks," he said plainly, "I admit I myself to being curious about how it came about... The real story, I mean." Implying that we lied about it... I ought to have been annoyed.
"You're far from the ranks now, General Le Carré," I replied smoothly, not in the least bit insulted, "But you all seem to be under the wrong impression."
"And what impression is that?" Aristander asked, "You do have three wives, do you not? And a number of other lovers, if the rumours are indeed true."
Glad I wasn't drinking anything at that moment. I needed a sharp intake of breath just to deal with that news. I was half tempted to ask who the rumour mill had placed in the roles of my other lovers. I'm sure the list featured pretty much anyone, male or female, who was seen regularly with me.
"By the Maker," Armen laughed, one hand over his mouth and another spilling his wine a little, "Things have really got out of control." He was slightly more drunk than the rest of us.
Mariette rode to the rescue.
"The false impression you have is that he had any choice whatsoever," she said, with just a hint of heat in her tone, "The Marquis did not pursue the Marquise, she chose him. Wrapped him around her little finger, quite skilfully in fact. She chose the Warden-Commander too, and they've been inseparable ever since. Perhaps the real miracle is that the Warden-Commander also liked you, Sam."
Mariette's intelligence gathering was a little too good. I gave her a sarcastic yeah yeah.
"Anyway, that's true," I said, looking to the couple, "It was all Julie. We were being chased by chevaliers, and things looked pretty bleak. That's when she made her move, and we've been tied up ever since."
Zevran let out something between a groan and a purr. "Really?" he asked excitedly, "I knew she was a ... sensual woman when I saw her handling that weapon at the factories, but who could have guessed! It is a great pity that she is no longer leader of your people."
"We'd be at war with most of the Free Marches if she was," Le Carré pointed out, quite literally using his cup to point at the Ostwick delegation across the square as they quietly drank and ate with a selection of other less enthused delegations.
Interesting that he considered himself one of us, despite his refusal to come over to the Trojan cause.
"From what I am hearing, that is going to happen anyway," Zevran replied, "Though I would be more worried about assassins than armies. The aristos really do not like you." And he's a man who'd know.
I looked at Mariette for confirmation, and reassurance that we were aware of that problem. She nodded slightly, indicating that she was on top of that problem. Allowing me to take a swig of my mead without a lump blocking its passage down my throat.
"Some of them," Aristander confirmed, "Most of them, in truth. But not all. We are here, after all."
"And it is good to meet my fellow Antivans in such a place," Zevran said, raising his wine, "My work does not allow me to return home often."
"Indeed," Ianthe said through thinned lips, "We have been in Markham for fifteen years now ourselves."
"Truly?" Zevran asked, before rattling off something in a dialect of Antivan, of which there are at least three. There was a response in the same, and it seemed to smooth things over.
"Well then," Aristander said, "To Antiva and Troy."
We all drank to that, happily.
"And what of your Tevinter bride?" Zevran said, "Did you not choose her too? I would find her very hard to resist."
"Political marriage," I replied, keeping it brief, "But we're making it work." I was fond of her. It wasn't love... Not yet.
"I can see that," Zevran said, eyeing Aurelia's corner of the space, "Your life is going to become very loud very soon, I think." If you don't know what he was talking about, I suggest you grow a brain, dear reader.
"You and me both," I agreed with a grin, "But you want to know something? I can't wait. I'm weirdly excited."
"Perfectly normal," Aristander mused, his eyes looking upwards at the sky, "Very common among new fathers, but not as much so as them being utterly terrified."
"You were like that with our first," Ianthe said to him, "Couldn't wait to be a father, but was afraid he didn't know what to do."
"Well, I had experience with my siblings' children," I replied in explanation, "When not on deployment, I would spend my time between their homes and my own. Got conscripted into baby service more often than not. Family's very important where I'm from."
A pang of homesickness struck me. I wouldn't be introducing my own kids to my parents, my brother or my sister. I felt very bad about that, like it was my fault. But reason reasserted itself quickly, and so I drowned my homesickness a little in mead. It helped, but only slightly.
"Your other world?" Aristander asked.
"Yeah," I said, rubbing my neck, "That story is true too. Not just something Grand Cleric Brandon made up, in case you were wondering, though she has embellished the tale."
"With the part about the Maker bringing you here?" Ianthe asked, genuinely interested.
"I don't know if God brought me here or not," I replied, "But Julie seems to think so, the Grand-Cleric too. That's good enough for me, for now at least."
"How did you get here?" Zevran asked, "I have been to many places in this world, and I have never heard anything so crazy. I would accuse you of making it up, but I wouldn't dare insult a man with such a handsome figure."
I rolled my eyes, noting that he pretty much just did accuse me of that.
"I'm afraid that information is a state secret," I said sarcastically, dodging the question, "But I am either someone from another world or a totally unknown polymath who has invented centuries worth of new knowledge and technology as well as a cover story about another world all the in space of only a few years."
"There is a third possibility," Aristander responded, "That you are the front for a much larger organisation that has developed these new ideas and inventions in secret. Yet no evidence for that exists, and some evidence to support your claim does exist. Not only are you immune from magic, that much is well confirmed at this juncture, but there are tales of men from other worlds scattered across our history. They are considered nothing more than folk legends, and often get attached to pre-existing tales of spirits from the Fade."
"That's hardly surprising," I said, "I travelled through the Fade to get here."
"Really?" Ianthe gasped, "Yet you managed to breach the Veil? Without magic?"
"That seems unlikely," said Aristander, "But my area of expertise is not natural philosophy, but political philosophy."
"I've seen this man walk through all manner of magical attacks like they were nothing but a gust of wind," McNulty said gruffly, his Orlesian-tinged Common rough but ready, "I've seen the flying machine he arrived in too. I doubt the Veil is a big obstacle to his kind, Maker assisted or otherwise."
Assuming I could get into the Fade from Earth at all on my own.
"Such a combination of blessings must surely be the work of the Maker," Mariette said coyly, leaning over slightly to eye my rear. Playing her game for fun now rather than for success.
"We'll see," I replied, not indulging her in the company present.
"Speaking of the will of the Maker," Aristander said, "We have corresponded at length with your wi... with the Lady Marquise for some months now."
Unable to contain my surprise that he was openly stating this, I looked at the man with raised eyebrows. I would have thought he was more discreet than this, but perhaps he thought we were all appropriate company for such a discussion. Maybe he knew more about it than I did.
"About what?" I asked.
"Politics," Ianthe smiled.
"Julie Marteau... I'm sorry, Julie Hunt, is very famous you know?" Aristander explained, "Her writing on liberty has sparked something of a storm here in the Marches, among thinking people of all stripes. Not least in my own institution."
"The Warden-Commander is not less so now either," Ianthe added, "It is no secret that this colony of yours was her idea. I daresay the political neutrality of the Wardens is in great danger should she be acknowledged."
I listened with interest, certain that the husband and wife would continue in this vein for some time. I was not disappointed.
"They're all famous," Aristander said with a wave of the hand, "But the Marquise is clearly the most so."
"The man beside us is the most famous," Ianthe insisted, gesturing and glancing at me over her glasses, "A man who very many believe is from another world? Immune to magic? Holding thousands of mages in his thrall as others are rebelling all over the continent?"
"I'm not sure you can say we're in his thrall," Armen interrupted with futility.
"Yes yes, to some he's a man chosen by the Maker," Aristander replied, ignoring the interjection, "To others, an anomaly only to be explained as the work of malevolent forces. Neither side has any evidence to suggest their side is right."
The speed of their conversation was by this point increasing.
"It isn't the Marquis' writings that have sparked a movement across the Marches," Aristander continued, "They don't contact him in secret, do they?"
They certainly did not. Of course, it was not news to me that Julie had been in contact with Marchers of a liberal persuasion, but she hadn't told me, because I would have been duty bound to tell the Chancellor. So, if Velarana did eventually find out, I'd be in trouble. Mariette was the one who was supposed to be contacting sympathetic VIPs, and indeed she had been. Mariette was the reason I knew what Julie was up to; the letters flowed through the OSS office.
"Yet the Marquise built the weapons we saw today with knowledge from that other world," Ianthe said, "I wonder how far she would have gotten without that? Or the support of the Warden-Commander? They would all probably be stuck in Ferelden if it wasn't for her."
The pair of them suddenly shut up, and looked at me. Expectantly. There was a long pause, which got more awkward as time went on.
I looked at the others, but they came up empty. Mariette was simply watching, Armen and Zevran were shaking slightly with laughter, whereas Le Carré and McNulty were just drawing blanks entirely.
"What do you think, Marquis?" Ianthe asked at last, a little impatiently.
"Are you asking me who I think is more famous?" I ventured, carefully.
"Yes." "No."
The two had answered together, Ianthe saying yes, Aristander saying no.
"Okay," I said, holding up my hands, "I'll try."
"I'm not sure you can succeed," Le Carré thought aloud, halfway under his breath.
"Julie is the best known of us," I said, "But none of us would be known at all without each other. That extends to these people with me too. Armen was with us from the beginning. General McNulty and General Marriette de Villars have both contributed greatly. General Le Carré saved Halamshiral."
"A … diplomatic answer," Ianthe said flatly, "You surprise me, Marquis."
"Yet he agreed with me," Aristander smiled, "The Marquise is the best known."
A sinking feeling came over me, as I realised the back-and-forth was about to resume. It was interesting, but it would have been nice to get a word in myself.
"That is not the same thing as most famous, my dear," said Ianthe, "The Marquise may indeed be best known, but that's because she's infamous rather than famous."
At which point I had to speak out.
"Of course they say things about her," I cut in, drawing all eyes to me again, "Julie threw off noble rule in Orlais of all places. She challenged the Chantry directly. No wonder she gets called the Whore of Hearth and insults about the fact she's half-elf and doesn't hide it. It's a symptom of fear, and they ought to be afraid. Very afraid."
Aristander and Ianthe exchanged glances.
"Those are not the insults we hear," Ianthe said gently.
"At least, not exactly," Aristander confirmed, "The whore insult is indeed around. Easy insult to make against a commoner with multiple lovers, especially when outside of Orlais and its more open attitude to that sort of behaviour... Which as our own conversation proves, is not a prejudice reserved for the uneducated even."
"My apologies," Ianthe nodded.
I had a feeling like a spider crawling up my back, not sure if I wanted to ask the next thing. But I decided I had to know.
"So what do the Marchers say?" I asked, "And does Julie know about it?"
"If it's out there, she knows about it," Mariette confirmed, her tone deepening slightly to indicate that she knew what the two academics were talking about.
"So what exactly are we talking about?" I pressed on, "Do Marchers hate elf-blooded people more than the Orlesians do or something?"
"That has come up..." Aristander said carefully, "But no. It's her Rivaini heritage that is the subject of most of the reputational attacks. Such things are not uncommon here, Marchers like to think of themselves as very distinct from Rivain for various historical reasons."
"Namely that they're all criminals or undesirables," Ianthe explained, more confidently, "Pirates, prostitutes, raiders and apostates."
Le Carré was not impressed by the line of argument they seemed to be taking.
"A reputation derived from the predominance of Rivainis in the Armada, in mercenary groups, and the more loose Rivaini attitude to magic," said the Saviour of Halamshiral cluntly, "Do not pretend it is prejudice alone."
"That predominance is quite easily explained by historical factors however," Aristander noted, returning to his collegial manner, "They lost their homeland to the Qunari quite early on in the invasions, which forced many Rivaini people out of their homeland and destroyed the native economy."
"Indeed, I believe Falco's Investigation of the Armada states that most pirates hung before the Qunari invasion were Fereldan in origin, and afterwards they were Rivaini. Ferelden being considerably poorer than Rivain up until that point," Ianthe added.
"Not relevant," said le Carré, "It doesn't change the facts.
"It led to Rivaini expatriates forming mercenary groups and the Armada itself. They were determined to fight the Qunari to the death, and the rest of the South was eager to let them do so," Aristander continued, "Better to spend gold so that a Rivaini savage would go fight the Qunari than send more troops from Orlais or Nevarra. The distances involved meant that the latter course was more expensive to begin with."
"The rest of us, Marchers in particular, created the Rivaini pirate," Ianthe said, "It's our fault they have the reputation."
"Which is all very well and good," Le Carré replied, "But I do not think an analysis of the historical causes of Rivaini piracy are much comfort to the victims."
"Understand the cause of the disease, you can cure the symptoms," Ianthe quipped back, as she examined the inside of her cup in a statement of contempt for the man's less learned opinion, "Besides, what alternatives are there? Give Rivain back to the Qun?"
I'm not sure that would have helped. In fact, it would have made things worse, more likely.
"The Qun coming back in would put an end to civilised rule there forever, I think," Aristander said, "Last time, the Qun withdrew to Kont-Aar, leaving a huge power vacuum. The native dynasties of Rivain had converted to the Qun, so they weren't able to assert power. If the chaos continues, Qunandar might find itself with a loyal province were they to intervene."
"Then perhaps we should intervene," Mariette suggested, "The piracy on the high seas is unacceptable. It is banditry wearing a fancy dress, nothing more."
"Rivain failed to recover, and remained far behind," Ianthe said, "Treat its populace like common bandits, and you don't solve the problem. Merely delay it. Without a ruling authority that can establish safety, people turn to the only things that are profitable; piracy, mercenary work and assorted violence-for-pay."
Zevran cleared his throat pointedly. "There are many Rivaini individuals in the Crows of Antiva also," he said, "They are well known to target, let us say, vulnerable individuals for recruitment, as they can build loyalty on the back of such situations. And they have a violent reputation even among elves."
I digested this new information, understanding what they were saying about the history but not quite getting what that meant for Julie.
"So, they think what?" I began, "She's going to bring chaos? How is that any different to what the Orlesians say?"
"Yes, and no," Aristander said, maintaining his patience remarkably well, "She is half-Rivaini, half-elf correct?"
"Yes."
"So when an Orlesian sees her, they see an unworthy commoner," he replied, "A bastard union between a human and an elf, primarily."
"That's certainly the way I would describe how they feel," I said, "Or at least until many read Le Sens Commun."
"We are speaking mostly of the unenlightened," Ianthe replied, "Though such ideas can be seen throughout the population. They are hard to avoid."
"To a typical Marcher who doesn't know any better, their perception is different," Aristander said gently, "They do care about the elf-blood matter, but not as much as the fact she looks Rivaini. Mostly."
"To the well-to-do Marcher merchants, she appears Rivaini," Ianthe concluded sharply, "A person incapable of civil virtues. A thief, even a murderer, by nature. And they see her promotion of Libertarian ideals as proof of this, ideological cover for the same theft and murder."
It finally clicked, and my stomach turned. Not least because I was disgusted that such prejudice existed on top of the elf-human divide, but also because it reminded me of my former self, before I had seen the error of my ways serving in Afghanistan and Iraq.
"Well... That's disgusting," I said, unable to think of anything else to say.
"Quite," Aristander said, "And indeed quite the obstacle to any peaceful Libertarian movement. It is said that most merchants if not all support the ideas of Le Sens Commun in Orlais. Here, it is half and half. Noble privilege is lesser in the Marches, and so merchantile privilege is greater. Of course, there are geographic differences. I'm sure my fellow Antivans are more alarmed than people from, say, Kirkwall. Though that has as much to do with money. They are not pleased to have to pay off Rivaini pirates and never have been."
"Well, let the bastards tremble with fear," I declared, holding up my cup as a sort of toast, "They'll get a good whiff of gunpowder and shot for their trouble. We're ready to take them on, pirates and merchants both, you can be sure of that, Monsieur Telmesso."
"Something I'm sure they're aware of now," Zevran added, "They heard your weapons as far as Antiva City, Par Vollen and even Minrathous."
"Which was the point," Mariette said, a little viciously as the wine began to go to her head, "We're Orlesian. It is only proper that the world tremble before us."
And on that note, after a fairly awkward silence, we moved to more lighthearted matters of no importance to this story.
After another long while, the group broke up, and just as Mariette and I began to move off, Zevran caught up with us.
"Lord Marquis, I'm afraid I had other motives for approaching you this evening," he said quickly, stepping in front of us.
My mind went somewhere at once; that this was a sexual proposition. I wasn't used to being approached like this... by men, and I froze up a little. Yeah, that's pretty pathetic, but sue me.
Mariette's mind went somewhere else entirely, and her hands went straight to her blades. In the end, she didn't draw them, because the elf held up his palms in front of him and smiled, making himself utterly defenceless. A gesture that he meant no harm and meant no offence.
"And you're only now getting around to saying so?" I asked flatly, somewhat annoyed that this had come out of the blue. I had any number of dignitaries I was supposed to make the rounds with, and I was behind on that task already.
"The conversation grew so pleasant," he admitted, "And my fellow Antivans didn't move. I had to wait."
It had been a pleasant, and eye-opening, conversation. So with a breath of exasperation, I nodded and forgave him.
"What is it that you want?" I said.
"It is not so much about what I want," Zevran said, "What do you know about Kirkwall?"
I blinked with surprise. I had forgotten that he was a part of their delegation, simply due to the Antivan banter with the Telmessos. It was also a pretty random question.
"The basics," I replied, "Why?"
"Come with me," Zevran said, "The Kirkwallers have a story for you, and a request after you've heard it."
"Ah," said Mariette, something clicking into place in her head, "I think I know what this is about, Marquis. I recommend we go along."
'We' huh? Very well.
"Lead the way," I sighed, "They're on my list anyway." Which was true.
Zevran led the way across the square, past the food, to the Kirkwall delegation. I picked up a few snacks as we moved, chewing on them by the time we came to the group. They all looked at me with weird eyes. Wide, almost alarmed. There was some handwringing by the younger ones.
I wasn't sure what to think about that. They wanted something from me, Zevran had already said so, but clearly it was going to be a big ask. At the very least, they thought it was, and that there was a better than outside chance I'd say no.
Zevran introduced the three relevant people in order.
Bran Cavin, Provisional Viscount of Kirkwall.
A man clearly uncomfortable in his role, considering he was the one doing most of the hand-wringing and other jitters. He was dressed in formalwear and had a basic half-mask on. A follower, not a leader, forced into the latter role. You can always spot them at the critical moments, their teeth practically chatter, but otherwise, they're calm and professional. Some get through the Army selection process, on both worlds, until their capacity is revealed at poor moments.
Mr. Cavin reminded me of a lieutenant who went half mad in Iraq with paranoia, ending up shooting people he shouldn't have. Before which, he was perfectly capable. Hell, he was administratively brilliant. His platoon always had what they needed.
Aveline Vallen, Captain-Commander of the Kirkwall City Guard.
The person who was actually taking charge of the situation, because she wasn't nervous in the slightest. I could see nothing but the steel in her eyes. She was determined to have what she needed. A large, muscular woman with long red hair tied up in braids behind her head, wearing armour plate decorated with the heraldry of Kirkwall in black and gold, she stood out like a sore thumb in the pool of masked, dressed up aristocrats.
Merrill of the Sabrae.
Representative of the City Elves of Kirkwall, who had a big interest in the request about to be made. She was the Dalish elf that had approved of me offering my seat to Lavellan, black-haired, tattooed and chirpy. She was also another companion of Marian Hawke. Pity that the Champion of Kirkwall had went away by this stage.
She was also a distant relative of Ciara, though Ciara didn't remember her, her part of the Sabrae clan having moved into Orlais after the Fifth Blight while the rest went to the Free Marches. The last time they met, Ciara had been too young to remember her.
Sorry if this chapter has so many introductions, but they're worth a mention. Between Arainai, the Telmessos and this lot, I had many interactions in the future.
"Good to meet you," I said, after Zevran had stepped away, "He said you had a request."
"I also asked what you knew about Kirkwall," Zevran said from the side, "Maybe you ought to explain to the Marquis the situation."
"Starkhaven marched in," I said, before anyone else could speak, "Your city was in chaos and the goodly Prince took advantage."
"Trying to find the mage Anders," Mariette confirmed, "A convenient excuse that the other Marcher states accepted, especially as the city was in chaos after the Chantry blew up."
"That is correct, Lord Hunt," Bran said, outwardly calm, "Prince Vael, formerly a resident of our city, holds it with an iron grip. His forces and the Templars re-occupied the Gallows, cut off access to the harbour to search ships, and make forays into the town to question people that Anders knew."
"It's worse than that," said Aveline, "After his troops encountered resistance in Lowtown, their discipline broke down. No one re-established it. Every foray into the city is accompanied with lootings and murders, and my guards have been forced to join the fighting to protect our people more often than not."
Nothing surprising to me. Resistance in a city usually hardens attitudes towards the populace, and this can express itself in a number of ways. That's even assuming that the command structure didn't order harsher measures, which would certainly be a possibility.
"Some say Starkhaven want to occupy the whole city," Merill said sadly, "Something no one in Lowtown wants to see. They say you're a friend to elves, and your leader is an elf, so we'd like your help. They're mean. I don't like mean people. You seem nice. You gave your seat to Ellana in front of all those people."
An act recognised by all to be provocative, in the sense of being a clear expression of Libertarian ideals. Ideals that said elves and humans were equal.
"You're also the only person who can help," Aveline said, "No one else wants to.. and no one else could win, not without destroying the city in the process."
I cocked an eyebrow. They didn't want weapons, as I had expected. They didn't want training, which we actually could have provided. They wanted full blown military intervention. I rubbed my jaw, trying to find the best words to put them down easy.
"It can't happen," Mariette said, "Troy is at peace with Starkhaven. This act would amount to a declaration of war."
"It would be organised as a transition," Bran said at once, matter-of-factly, "The Council and the Merchants' Guild would both pass resolutions accepting the concern of Starkhaven to find the apostate Anders, but that we feel the expertise of the Trojan Republic is greater than that of Starkhaven with regard to controlling mages... as your reputation suggests, you have had no incidents of magical murder that are known about."
For which we were very grateful, but acutely aware that it was only a matter of time before that situation changed. Luckily, by this time, it remained the case.
"And the Templars?" Mariette asked, "They're magehunters. You could hardly claim we have more expertise than them? And Anders would be tried by them, assuming he was even taken alive."
"The Templars' legitimacy came from the Chantry," Aveline said, "They rebelled against the Chantry, same as the Mage Rebellion. They no longer hold legal standing to act against mages, and are a rogue force. Besides, they have had the least restraint in attempting to find Anders, to the detriment of many. In Lowtown in particular."
I grimaced for a second, only imagining what the equivalent of the Spanish Inquisition were capable of doing to catch someone like that. It made me want to help the Kirkwallers, particularly as their arguments were reasonably sound. But there was a pretty big problem.
"Okay, you have a point," I said, "Kirkwall is being strangled, and we can help. But you're asking the wrong guy. I'm our military leader. I don't make these decisions."
"We're a democracy," Mariette said, with unusual pride, "Unlike your position, Monsieur le vicomte, all our adult citizens vote on who rules. And they have selected Lady Velarana as High Chancellor, not the Marquis."
"But I bet everyone likes you!" Merrill burst in, suddenly, silencing everyone. Me especially.
Mariette was amused. "...And?" she said, "Doesn't mean they'll listen."
"I think it's being pretty optmistic to say everyone likes me," I stated, "Even if you do, petite de Villars."
Mariette's mask swivelled towards me like a panzer's gun barrel, her change in stance making it clear she didn't appreciate my little joke. I looked away from her and cleared my throat, almost afraid of what riposte was going to come my way.
"It's generally understood that your government respects and trusts your opinion," Aveline said, rowing in behind Merrill's argument, "If you bring our proposal to your factions, they'll accept it."
"Again, very optimistic," I said, "But... I might as well. It costs nothing."
The four guests' faces lit up. The Viscount with utter relief. The Guard with something approaching anticipation, probably for the righteous fight to come. The chirpy Dalish with happiness and appreciation. And the Antivan with satisfaction, with a job well done.
"I'm not sure if I should be so happy," Zevran said, "The conflict has provided me with a job... even if it has been brutal."
"Don't worry," Merrill said happily, "We'll find you a new job."
"I hear the Blooming Rose is recruiting," Aveline joked, "Seems right up your alley."
I'm not an idiot... if 'Blooming Rose' wasn't a brothel, my name was Jesus.
Zevran looked at the Guard Captain with approving eyes. "Will you come and visit me if I take up the offer?" he purred, "I'm sure I can give you a discount, if you allow me to handle such... assets regularly. They require tender care after being hidden in that armour all day." His eyes scanned her, only half-mockingly.
Aveline grunted something about 'another Maker-damned whore', before turning on her heel and marching away.
After that little episode, I left Mariette to make practical arrangements with Aveline, after finding wherever it was she had marched off to, and I determined to find Julie and Velarana to discuss the proposal of the Kirkwallers.
I found Julie easily enough; she had made her way from the Markham delegation through those from Ostwick, Wycome, Hambleton and Ansburg, before ending up with Soprano and Mike in the Army officers' group. Tam made an appearance right on my tail, probably seeing me going straight for Julie.
"Hey, what's wrong?" Julie asked in Orlesian, "Saw you coming."
"Is it the Kirkwallers?" Tam asked, "Bethany said she was glad they were here, did something go wrong?" Bethany meaning Bethany Hawke.
I shook my head. "They came to me with a proposal," I said, "They want our help against the Starkhaven occupation. Military help. They've got political cover for it too." I explained the plan.
The full implications of that request not being lost on anyone present.
"Great," Soprano said, "When do we go?" Wide, audible approval for the idea was expressed by the officers present. Lots of small cheers and whooping.
I grinned at them all, glad to see they had that fire in their belly.
"It's not that simple," Tam frowned, eyeing Soprano disapprovingly, "Sam can't just say 'we're at war' and march you off to battle."
"The Assembly has to sign off on it," Julie confirmed.
Soprano's face curled with anger, and she made a dismissive gesture with her hand. "When will those chickenshit politicians understand?" she said, half-snarling, "We are already at war. We are always going to be at war. There's too many bastards in the world that want us dead, and they'll raise more bastards who feel the same."
"General, control yourself," I snapped at once, "You're talking to one of 'those chickenshit politicians' right now." I pointed to Julie, who seemed less insulted about it than I did, as far as I could tell given the masks.
"The Marquise is no chickenshit at all," Soprano sniffed, nonetheless keeping her tone calmer than it was before, "But my apologies, Marquis."
I wasn't sure I liked the sincerity level of her apology, but left it at that.
"I don't think the politicians will be a problem," Julie said, "The Kirkwallers came up with a good solution. We might be able to get the votes for intervention... especially given what else Starkhaven are doing lately."
Every single officer immediately perked up, myself included. We hadn't heard anything about goings on of that sort. Julie sighed, and explained.
"They're getting volunteers and hiring mercenaries from Nevarra," she said, "Preparing for war."
"And the Chancellor did nothing?!" I said loudly, "That's a fucking disgrace."
"She doesn't judge a pre-emptive strike to be possible," Julie said, "Starkhaven doesn't border us, and it's a march across half the Marches through neutral realms to get to their territory. At the moment, she feels that it's just Starkhaven and Tantervale plotting against us, so we can't act."
"But what if it isn't?" Tam asked, her tolerance of bullshit reaching zero, "Ostwick and Hercinia can remain neutral right until the mercenaries and volunteers march through, then join when it's too late to fight them all individually."
Julie nodded. "That's what I argued," she said, "The Chancellor agreed, but without a reason other realms could understand, we couldn't move. With this, maybe she'll agree."
"She better," Soprano yawned. I ignored her and looked around for a moment. I quickly noticed something.
"We need to speak with the Chancellor. Now," I said, "Where is she?"
We turned around, the circle of officers looking out where it had been looking in. Tam used her height to its maximum, standing on her toes to get even more advantage in it, but to no avail. The High Chancellor of the Trojan Republic was nowhere to be found. Even though the square full of guests was exactly where she should have been at that moment.
But there was something more unusual.
One of Fisher's Marine running towards me. He thumped to a halt in front of me, and saluted.
"Marquis, the High Chancellor urgently requests your presence," he said, "She urges you to arm yourself first."
I reacted at once. I pointed to the nearest private. "Give me that weapon, soldier," I said. The woman handed over her firelance at once, and pulled off her cloth combat webbing and pouches to hand to me next. I slung the whole thing over my left shoulder.
"With me," I said to the other enlisted personnel present, "The rest of you, stay here."
My heart was pumping now, because I knew what would happen when I said those words; Julie, Tam and Soprano raised a cry of complaint. My gut turned, hoping they would accept my words.
"You two are carrying my children," I said firmly, "Velarana would only ask for me specifically if there was a magical threat, but that doesn't mean you can't hurt. And if you were hurt, I couldn't live with myself."
I looked to Soprano, so I wouldn't see their faces. "And you, General, are my natural successor, and you're not immune to magic."
Julie and Tam both closed in on one another, in my peripheral vision, going to comfort each other as the squad gathered. Or perhaps to plot what punishment I was to receive. I still wasn't looking at them. Couldn't.
The marine led the way out of the central square, shouting to clear our path as we ran at full pace towards the south end of the encampment, where the Chancellor's tents had been placed so as to provide a quick escape for her in the event of treachery. A few other soldiers came along as we went, but most remained on duty, guarding the rest.
The outer palisade, which had remained up from our original work on the side, was a giant square and the tents had been laid out in a grid pattern originally. Of course, nothing like the thirty five thousand we had originally populated the space with had come for this meeting, not even five thousand had. The guests' had been put in the northern half of the camp, closer to the city proper.
We first had to weave through the tents, as the stunned guests looked on in drunken awe, and around less attentive servants of the guests, before breaking out into the open space where our own people had lived for a few months. We made good time, the infantry-step taking me the distance by instinct, to say nothing of the Grenadiers with me, whom most certainly had picked up that skill by now too.
There was indeed a commotion going on ahead. A platoon or two had surrounded the gate area, including the Chancellor's reception tents. More guests had been trickling in each day, transport not being as reliable as I was used to on Earth, and so as they came off their ships, they were greeted by some government official or another, sometimes by Velarana herself. A suspicion developed as we got closer; perhaps some great enemy had sent an envoy. A messenger of doom.
All the better, I thought, maybe the moron had gave such offence to Velarana that she had finally understood our situation.
We came up on the other marines standing ready to fight, their firelances pointed at the tents from all directions. They greeted us with a complete lack of surprise, but with less deference than you would have expected from soldiers of the Army; Velarana had deliberately chosen the Navy for her guard. Not exactly a vote of confidence in us on her part, but also a smart move.
I found the nearest captain after a moment or two, a salty looking Jaderite standing behind a makeshift barrier of barrels directly opposite the main entrance to the Chancellor's tent and to the side of the main gate leading to the beach. "Report, officer," I said, shooting my top shelf command glare at him, "What is this madness?"
"There's a stand-off inside, Marquis," the captain replied, not paying any heed to my glare but answering as he likely had been ordered to, "Some Chantry folks and a mage. If you listen carefully, you can hear them shouting. The Lady Chancellor gave us orders to make sure none escaped."
I paused, stopping dead and slowing my breath to listen. Indeed, there was what you could call a frank exchange of views going on inside the tent, though it was one formerly belonging to a commander at Sahrnia and so had many thick layers of canvass to prevent me understanding it.
The situation wasn't clarified at all, so I waved the Grenadiers over into a huddle. They came running at once, coming into a semi-circle in front of me, those in front taking a knee.
"Listen guys, we're going in there," I said, pointing at the tent, "I know it isn't really your style, but you're going to have to be quiet. We need to get the drop on whoever it is that's in with the Chancellor, and stop them without killing her, so leave the grenades here and step light. Close formation, column, bayonets fixed, move to the line when inside. Do not fire unless fired upon." Commands they were all familiar with.
Wordless acknowledgement of my orders came in the form of nods, the cocking of weapons, and the snapping of silverite sword-bayonets into their sockets. The twelve or so Grenadiers formed up into a column two wide and six or so deep with more quiet than I would generally given them credit for before, especially as we were talking about the largest men and women in uniform in the entire army. If a single one was smaller than me, I fail to recall the soldier.
They followed me to the tent entrance, as the marines lifted their barrels up so as not to shoot us in the backs. Thanks guys. Slowly, cocked the flint on the firelance, I approached the first flap, cocked the flint on my own firelance, and began counting down on my fingers.
Cinq, quatre, trois, deux, un.
I rushed through the flap, choosing every step with great care so as to reduce the noise I was making. Behind me, I could barely hear the troops behind me move over the sounds of the shouting, which became more and more coherent as I moved through the outer sections of the tent. The 'atrium' area of the former baron's tent was empty, the chairs for the guards overturned. The second section was simply insulation space, but there was a tear here and there in the canvass, indicating some sort of struggle. No blood though, I noted as I passed, before my concentration returned to sharp focus on the situation at hand.
I burst through the last flap, into the midst of an argument about who was leaving with whom, the Grenadiers bursting in behind to either side, lining up and swiftly aiming their weapons', blade and barrel, at the assembled occupants inside.
It wasn't what I had expected, at any rate.
There were three groups, indeed in a standoff that you could almost call Mexican.
The Chancellor and her Aequitarian advisors, risen from their seats and staves in hand, ready to unleash their magic.
A smaller group of Libertarian mages but not mages from our Army, guessing by the different design of their robes and their position to the side near the guests' seats.
Led by a pointy-jawed man with a short beard and light brown hair of just enough length to tie back in a small ponytail. A tabby cat hissed down by his feet, at everyone and everything that wasn't him.
Another group, made up of armed Chantry soldiers of some kind, but not like any I had ever heard of. Unlike Templars in heavy plate, these wore leather and chainmail, and the embroidered tabards over these things bore the symbol of an eye wreathed in fire. No mages in this group, but a mix of swords and crossbows, were carried.
This was led by an Amazon of a woman, someone who would have rivaled Tam in athleticism easily, something apparent even under or perhaps because of her heavy layers of armour. Short black hair, a long braid tied up in a circle at the back of her head like something you'd see on a Spartan, and scars across her far-from-ugly face told a story of someone who lived for combat. The blade in her hand was held like it was a part of her arm.
In case you're wondering, I didn't take all this in in the split second that it took to enter.
I entered shouting "Drop your weapons!" in Common. A cry taken up by the troops with me, in both Common and Orlesian. The unexpected arrival from an unexpected direction put two of the three parties into a state of surprise, giving me the time to evaluate which was the threat. Both, was my conclusion, as I saw our own Aequitarians were just as concerned, the Chancellor herself squaring off against the brown-haired newcomer.
We had them all cold, to the Chancellor's great relief and the others' amusement.
"I refuse," said the black-haired Amazon, turning to me but staying where she was, halfway towards the brown-haired mage, "I stand here with the authority of Divine Justinia herself."
Her speech was surprising, not because of her words but because of her accent, which was another vaguely familiar one to me. German or Dutch, perhaps even Slavic. It was hard to place exactly, but it gave her a gravitas many others lack, aided by the timbre of her speaking too.
She pointed at the mage. "This man is a murderer on an unimaginable scale," she declared, "And I will leave here with him, in chains."
"I am going nowhere in chains," replied the mage, with a full-on Anglo-Fereldan accent, "I fight for Justice, and the freedom of all mages. The same freedom enjoyed by the mages here."
I was far from amused. This argument-turned-armed-impasse by complete strangers was entirely alien to me. I understand the words, but not how the hell it had erupted in Troy, in the Chancellor's tent no less! I ground my teeth, unable to decide if I should just order a fusillade to settle the matter. Shoot first, questions later.
Velarana managed to act before I swung decisively towards killing the interlopers.
"Thank you, Marquis," she said, eyeing the mage in particular while his attention was on me, "Your presence can bring this to a satisfactory conclusion, I am sure."
"What in the name of God is going on here?" I asked flatly, the phrasing of the question sparking a curious look from the Amazon.
Velarana motioned with her staff, not too quickly, at the Chantry delegation.
"This is Lady Cassandra Pentaghast, a Seeker and the Right Hand of the Divine," she explained, "Acting as the Divine's personal agent in the matter of the summit. I was greeting her personally, as we didn't think that the Chantry would respond to our offer. Lady Pentaghast was in the area, it seems."
Velarana's cool gaze turned on the brown-haired mage.
"We were discussing how we might keep good relations when this man and his party were allowed entry," she continued, "This is Anders. The man responsible for the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry, the murder of Grand-Cleric Elthina and a great many others."
"Which is why you must let me take him!" said Lady Pentaghast, "His crimes are such that only the Divine can judge him!"
"Silence!" Velarana hissed, quietening even the cat, "This is Troy. I am its Chancellor. It is for me to say what law applies here."
"It is said the people rule here," Anders said, "Is it not for the people to decide?"
"No, it isn't," Velarana said frankly, "They elected the Assembly and the Assembly elected me, so that we wouldn't have to tear ourselves apart over such matters. If they don't like how I handle it, they can remove me."
The benefit of representative government; unpopular but necessary decisions can be made.
"You won't take me alive," Anders said, "Or my people. We would gladly give our lives for both our own freedom and those of others. Not unlike you."
"Do not compare yourself to us, ser," Velarana said venomously, "And I can very much take you alive."
She pointed directly at me.
"This is Samuel Hunt," Velarana said, "This man can walk through Fadefire and grab you at will. Before you could even harm yourself, he could stop you."
I laid my eyes on the man in question, with as much icy reserve as I could muster. Telling him to try it. The weapons pointing at him and the reality of who I was seemed to sway him to stay put. He was looking at me with some mix of reverence, confusion and anger. I guess it would be like George Washington coming to stop me from doing something, given what I represented to the Libertarian mages of Thedas. Mixed feelings are only natural.
"The man immune to magic..." Lady Pentaghast thought aloud. I nodded to her.
"I met the Left Hand of the Divine," I said, "Scary woman."
Pentaghast smirked. "I believe that is the point," she said, "We've been looking for you, Marquis."
"No doubt," I said, "But I'm afraid I can't let you take the mages here. Orders."
Pentaghast's eyes seemed to shift from side to side slightly, as she calculated the likelihood of her being able to fight. To kill Anders and escape. Or maybe just to kill Anders, at any cost. Evidently, the equations on the matter came up short, because she sheathed her weapon and gestured for her entourage to do the same. They complied, to my relief. The firelances of my troops didn't move.
Anders looked triumphant, smiling to his friends and picking up the cat at his feet. Not so fast, I thought to myself.
"I understand," Pentaghast said, "But you must be aware that allowing this man to live freely among you will call down an Exalted March on you."
"We have the most capable army of its size in the world," I replied with a shrug, "And we have an alliance with Tevinter. The crack Western legions are under the command of my father-in-lawTry it."
Anders' smile broadened. He was thoroughly enjoying himself, not least because Pentaghast's mood had soured to the point that she looked like she was sucking a lemon.
"An Exalted March will not happen," Velarana insisted, "Because the monsieur will not be granted freedom."
Anders' triumph faded, as did his smile.
"Nor will he be given to you," Velarana said to Pentaghast, "No matter our will to promote friendly relations."
Cassandra Pentaghast was not a person who liked to be told no, when it came to her duty anyway.
"So what is your intention?" she said, "Exile? Give him a headstart and let this problem run to someone else's realm?"
"Tempting," Velarana admitted, "But I have sworn an oath to uphold the law... "
She sat down in her seat again, and gazed on Anders like he was a raccoon digging through her trash; with contempt and disgust.
"Anders of Kirkwall," the High Chancellor said, "You are under arrest for the commission of crimes against humanity, namely murder, terrorism and the illegal use of magic, under the Provisional Criminal Code of the Trojan Republic."
Incredulity spread among the two groups of interlopers. They just could believe it. We were going to try Anders ourselves, risking the wrath of both Libertarian mages and the Chantry. I on the other hand, thoroughly approved. Such a thing very much should be the subject of a trial. The truth needed to be heard on Kirkwall, and if Anders was guilty, he needed to be punished. I didn't have an opinion about his guilt, save that it needed to be tested. Something that Velarana had most likely been counting on too.
"Marquis," she commanded, "Seize him."
Needless to say, his magic did not help him. His cat was of more use in fending me off, but not by much.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry again for the delay, but this time I have a really good excuse: I was moving house.
Across an ocean.
While starting a new job.
This story is now going up on AO3 in a more disgestable form, i.e. with smaller chapter sizes, along with new edits, if you want to head over there for a look. No major re-writes, just improvements.
Rolling edits here to come, as usual.
I hope you enjoyed this, and thanks for reading!