I appreciate you trying to comfort me or to keep me from showing up and embarrassing you, whichever it is, but the thought of you locked up in a little room with one window is worse than the thought of you in constant mortal peril. Let's pretend instead you fought a dragon, but it only breathed water, and you've never been so clean in your life. The dead rose from Lake Celestine after their arms and legs had already rotted off, so they could only roll toward you on the ground. You've hired an assistant mage who not only can light your arrows on fire but can turn others' weapons into large loaves of bread, which taste a little irony but otherwise delicious, especially once your fiery arrows have toasted them.
Kirkwall is a lot like that. The statues came to life but were very pleased to see us. They kept trying to shake our hands. Charming things. Unfortunately their hands were so large they kept nearly grabbing our entire bodies instead, so we had to kill them, but not before I named one after Gaspard de Chalons. Maker rest them both.
Here I do have a room, by the way, except I'm allowed to leave it and there are two windows. There's a lot of space. I'm not sure what to do with it, since everything I'd really like to have in it is off in Orlais somewhere fighting water dragons and bread.
But it means there's some privacy, and that's nice. I've used it to read your letter twenty times and make as many attempts at writing something that might make you turn so red in front of everyone you know. Sadly, I've given up. I can't do it. You can take the man out of the Chantry, as they say, but you can never take the repression out of the man. My last try started with thighs and two sentences later was on to birds. (Feathers, you know. Birds have them.) I don't think you would turn red anyway. Shameless.
I won't die. I'll be here when you can be here. If that's never, I'll see you in Orlais. I'll tell you about the birds then.
letter; less quickly.
I appreciate you trying to comfort me or to keep me from showing up and embarrassing you, whichever it is, but the thought of you locked up in a little room with one window is worse than the thought of you in constant mortal peril. Let's pretend instead you fought a dragon, but it only breathed water, and you've never been so clean in your life. The dead rose from Lake Celestine after their arms and legs had already rotted off, so they could only roll toward you on the ground. You've hired an assistant mage who not only can light your arrows on fire but can turn others' weapons into large loaves of bread, which taste a little irony but otherwise delicious, especially once your fiery arrows have toasted them.
Kirkwall is a lot like that. The statues came to life but were very pleased to see us. They kept trying to shake our hands. Charming things. Unfortunately their hands were so large they kept nearly grabbing our entire bodies instead, so we had to kill them, but not before I named one after Gaspard de Chalons. Maker rest them both.
Here I do have a room, by the way, except I'm allowed to leave it and there are two windows. There's a lot of space. I'm not sure what to do with it, since everything I'd really like to have in it is off in Orlais somewhere fighting water dragons and bread.
But it means there's some privacy, and that's nice. I've used it to read your letter twenty times and make as many attempts at writing something that might make you turn so red in front of everyone you know. Sadly, I've given up. I can't do it. You can take the man out of the Chantry, as they say, but you can never take the repression out of the man. My last try started with thighs and two sentences later was on to birds. (Feathers, you know. Birds have them.) I don't think you would turn red anyway. Shameless.
I won't die. I'll be here when you can be here. If that's never, I'll see you in Orlais. I'll tell you about the birds then.
Alistair