Chapter 3. In which Josephine is acquainted with the trials and tribulations of phonetics

Dorian had to give it to Josephine: her reserves of patience were boundless. She had evidently mastered the art of dealing with rowdy noblemen a long time ago. It was then just a form of practice, or indeed a sophisticated sport, to try to get on her nerves as much as possible as she taught him the intricacies of the Antivan accent. Learning was never Dorian's problem; on the contrary, it was the boredom of the unoccupied part of his brain that was tricky. That was why he much rather preferred being tutored by books than people. They presented way less delightful distractions.

"Mañana," said Josephine with an exhausted expression.

"Manyana," repeated Dorian. "The nasality of that yod troubles me, Lady Montilyet. Why does it spread to the unsuspecting ah? It rather seems like an imposing thing to do. Surely a civilised elocutor would stop such a barbaric invasion on an unsuspecting rounded vowel. Ah. Aaaaah. Manyana."

"You can't just decide to overwrite the rules of phonation you don't like, Dorian. Mañana. Ma-ña-na."

"Ah, but Josie – ought we not approach those kinds of patterns creatively and thoughtfully, with the kind of impassioned engagement we apply to any other learnéd art? I refuse to blindly follow regulations with no rationale. Manyana."

Josephine closed her eyes for a second, her eyelid twitching slightly. "Very well, Dorian. For tomorrow's session, I shall send for the book on Antivan historical pronunciation, lest your thirst for knowledge goes unquenched. For the moment, let us leave the yod be… shall we try the th now?"

"I remain your humble student, Josie. Yearning for the knowledge you offer."

Josephine's face was very carefully schooled back into patient expression. Oh, she was good. Dorian was having the time of his life.

"The rule is that if cee or zed is followed by a vowel different from ah or oh, a native Antivan speaker will pronounce it as a th," said Josephine, carefully enunciating each singular sound. Dorian was diligently taking notes. "Let us try the word process as an example. El processo. Do you hear the fricative sound as the eh follows the cee? Pro-the-sso."

"How delightfully clear. However, if you don't mind me asking…"

Josephine's expression twitched. "Could you just repeat the word, Dorian? El processo."

"In a little moment. If you could just explain, Josie… why would you th only after the ah and the oh? Would it not be more consistent to decide whether an es or a th is your consonant of choice, and then, in that spirit of integrity, produce a steady and reliable variety? I see no moral imperative in wavering stances such as those. In fact, they strike me as somehow… untrustworthy."

"El processo, Dorian." Josie's face was cracking slowly. "If you will."

"I am considering taking a stance on the subject. What would you say, Josephine? Would that not be a show of integrity that displays more Antivan virtue than just blind adherence to the erratic rules of language? El prothetho?"

Josephine's expression broke. She hid her face in palms, shaking in what Dorian recognised as fits of very repressed desperation. A wide grin blossomed on his face as he opened his mouth –

The door opened. Leliana walked in, freezing him in his tracks, and dropped a scroll onto Josephine's desk.

"El processo," she enunciated in a perfect Antivan accent, looking straight at Dorian. He swallowed nervously.

"El processo," he repeated.

Leliana smiled sweetly. "Very good."

-/-

Dorian reclined in his library chair, sighing deeply as he closed the book on his lap. Things had gotten significantly less fun from the point of Leliana's intervention; daring as he was, Dorian was still not quite berserk enough to continue his charade once Lady Nightingale declared it over. He was known as the sharpest mind of the Inquisition for a reason.

From that point on, then, it had been just the intricacies of the accent and word. His theatrical flare came in handy, no doubt, but parroting words was still not quite his discipline of choice; and it was unpleasant enough to find himself unable to reproduce some of the Antivan language's more annoying sounds. Dorian suspected Josephine had exacted some of her own revenge by having him repeat silly sentences over and over again. All in all, it was a rather undignifying exercise in imitation, and he rejoiced at getting it over and done with for the day. The splinters of Antivan phrases still rattled in his brain unpleasantly, interfering with his evening reading session. Apparently, there was no rest to be had in the embrace of his beloved books; and, annoyingly, the other venue of entertainment was gone with Lavellan.

He needed a break.

And, he thought with a grin that would impress even Varric, he knew just where to get it. Sera had offered him an important inspiration. What was the point of this entire charade if he wasn't going to pester other people about it?

-/-

"Welcome, my dearrrr Blackwallllll!" sang Dorian, waltzing into the stables. The Warden raised his head, eyeing him suspiciously – no doubt noticing the missing moustache.

"Why do you sound like that?"

"Whatever do you mean? This is my normal, healthy Antivan voz."

"You're not-"

"-the only thing I've got left from my long-lost patria, whom I left many years ago in my quest for knowledge. Oh, woe is me! The value of mi casa has only grown in my heart after I'd placed the sea between her and I!" Dorian dramatically pulled back the hood, revealing the atrocity of his haircut. Blackwell's eyes widened.

"Honestly, Dorian, what in the Void-"

Dorian inched closer and put a manicured finger on the Warden's bushy moustache – there had to be lips somewhere in there – effectively silencing him. Blackwall breathed heavily through his nose, a rising panic in his face.

"Shut up," whispered Dorian keenly, bringing his face closer to the other man's haunted expression. "There is a cold-blooded murderer somewhere in the castle who targets innocent where-I'm-froms. As far as you're concerned, I've always been Antivan, entiendes?"

Blackwall blinked, standing very still. "I, uh…"

"Get it?" clarified Dorian, not moving away out of pure hilarity. The Warden tried to nod without moving, failed, and decided to use his words instead. "Uh, yes. Sure. Of course."

Dorian grinned. Then he leaned in, placing a gentle peck on Blackwall's forehead, and dashed off before the Warden could get his hammer to permanently mutilate him. "I knew you'd see the need for this! Gracias, darling!"

Screams followed him as he ran back to the rotunda, giggling to himself. Anyone other than Blackwall and he could worry about his Antivan integrity… but the Warden was too much of a softie to blow his cover just out of petty revenge. And Dorian was definitely not above taking full advantage of it.

Feeling somewhat heartened, he considered his options. There was still much to do; Josephine was adamant he come back tomorrow, in order to learn the correct gestures and mannerisms of an Antivan nobleman. And there was, of course, the dress issue; the tailor was to measure him tomorrow to appropriate the clothing of the ambassador. He did not look forward to it. If the Antivan fashion was in any way, shape, or form resembling of what he now bore on his poor, poor head, then his newfound living nightmare was about to enter a brand new circle of hell. Whatever happened, he resolved, he would draw the line at glittery shirts.

He took a look towards the tavern, the bright lights deceitfully cheery in the falling twilight, and his expression soured. No doubt Hawke and her Little Wolf were already in there, enjoying the merriments of socialising that were now denied to him; Varric was probably cheering them on, the traitor.

This was a different matter entirely. Dorian realised that he hadn't really thought about the Little Wolf as Varric's friend; it was still difficult to imagine the former gladiator, a sullen, beastly presence at Minrathous' more exclusive parties, as someone rooted in the decisively manumitted, barbaric South. Those two just simply did not go together. The thing was, he thought, that for all the gossip surrounding the Champion of Kirkwall's inner circle, and all the political upheaval that they seemed to have been at the centre of, he knew relatively little of Hawke's companion. Compared to Josie, who appeared to know off the cuff exactly who the Little Wolf was and what he was like, he was decidedly more in the dark.

Changing that would be an advantage in his situation, he concluded.

Barring the direct sources of Hawke and Varric, the traitors they were, there was a very simple way of remedying his lack of knowledge. However, that would require going through a significant amount of sensationalist writing; and after a long day, this was the last thing he was willing to engage himself in. Thankfully, there was someone who he could bet would be eager to fill him in…

Well, it seemed that his plans for the morning were set.

-/-

"Maker's mercy, Dorian, what's happenedto you?!"

Dorian blinked at Cassandra unfavourably. It was raining again. Of course it would, blighted South it was. He had hoped that the moisture in the air would provide some much-needed springiness to his mercilessly straightened curls. Instead, the rain had gone for a much more direct approach: it made his hair wet. In hindsight, it was something he might have anticipated.

His sulking almost prevented him from enjoying Cassandra's scandalised face. Almost.

"I am fearing for my life," he announced in a defeated voice. "Fleeing a madman bent on assassinating not only myself, but my entire kin. In my despair, Lady Seeker, I seek your help and expertise."

Cassandra's face crinkled, her eyes still firmly fixed on his hair. "Have your… ugh… fashion choices gone awry?"

"I am fleeing persecution, Cassandra!" Dorian exclaimed indignantly. "And I assure you, this visual equivalent of retching has not been my willing choice. May it be testament to the depths of desperation I'm in."

Cassandra sighed deeply. "This had better be serious, Dorian. You're interrupting my morning routine."

"I was rather hoping I could whisk you away for breakfast?" he suggested, and before Cassandra could shut him down immediately, he added, "It's the matter of the Tale of the Champion."

The warrior's expression's changed from dismissive to distinctly attentive. Dorian congratulated himself for a bullseye. "What of it?"

"I know you for an avid reader of the tome, my dear Lady Seeker. And since I myself cannot quite stomach it, I was wondering if we could have a conversation about some… ah… aspects of it. If that seems like a pleasant way to start the day, of course?"

It was quite entertaining to watch Cassandra's face; wariness fought an overeager will to share, and was losing sorely. Very fitting, he supposed, that even the emotions of the stern Seeker were warrior-like, and her introspection a battlefield.

Still, he would have been disappointed if her Seeker instincts did not bar her from acting out of passion. Cassandra's eyes narrowed, shaking off the confusion. "What do you want, Dorian?"

Well, wouldn't you know it: the Seeker of Truth was seeking the truth. Thankfully, that could be a powerful tool as well.

"Fenris is trying to kill me," he said solemnly, and Cassandra's eyes widened. And – Maker dammit – a faint blush, not unlike Josephine's, rose up her cheeks. "I need you to tell me everything you know about him."

Cassandra exhaled slowly, seemingly a little dazed. It was, frankly, a stunning view. "Ah… Tevinter. It does make sense." She stared at him for a short moment, which Dorian used to curse the quadruple-damned appeal of homicidally-minded dramatic heroes, and then shook off the stupor and nodded decisively. "Come, Dorian. Let us discuss this."