Some sort of paddock. They were a gift from-- I suppose it was the Dalish, but they cannot be clear on that, and they're all writing things, now, it's almost impressive. Jeannot, they have halla, they keep them in a pen. They feed them Andraste-knows-what, they're--
[Almost in pain, please understand his pain:] Jehan!
[do you think he has not thought of that, of course he has thought of that, and yet--]
--that would be an insult. As if we should give a shit whether or not we would be insulting anyone so supremely dull-witted as to send a herd of wild creatures who eat grass to a BLOODY MOUNTAIN.
[He feels passionately. Can you tell.]
I want to free them. They deserve freedom. They deserve not to be kept under lock and key and forced to eat-- what will they eat, when the grass has died? What are they eating now? There is hardly vegetation. Remember when we went for a walk the other day, and all we saw were rocks and more rocks? And they weren't even interesting colors, these rocks. Very plain and grey. You like them. I detest them. Halla cannot eat them. I don't care what provisions these Dalish say they have made for them. They keep them traditionally. They know these secrets. Such secrets! But they still sent a pack of herbivores to a sodding mountain, Jeannot.
[ Jeannot nods agreeably. And fondly. The passion is admirable! Maybe it would be more admirable directed toward faith or people than toward white deer with funny antlers, but it's certainly better than none at all. ]
[--He offers, in a prayer, to... well, the Maker, probably. Maybe Andraste. She seems more reasonable in some ways.]
All right, yes, the Maker. But second to the Maker should be me, not some-- pack of know it all forest children with dewdrops in their knifey ears!
Look. It is simple. Will a deer eat oats? Yes, of course. Will a halla eat oats? Probably. I don't see why it wouldn't. But should a halla eat oats? Should it become reliant on horsefeed? Variety is best for the stomach. What's more, should we be diverting horse feed to the feedbags of the halla? We did not ask for them. We do not collectively believe that they should be kept, like common pets. Just because some little elves believe it is some birthright!
Do you think they really have dewdrops on their ears? They do sleep outside. When the dew forms in the mornings it must go somewhere. I know we have woken up damp—perhaps if our ears angled so the moisture would gather.
[ There's quill scratching in the background. ]
After you have liberated their halla, you should ask them.
Oh, you're terrible. Terrible. I feel abandoned. When Freddie gets here, just wait. I am ready to feel less abandoned and more understood and, and--
Rain traps. As if I care about these things. I am telling you about a real problem. A trouble. An issue. And you talk about rain traps. And you are writing. I can hear it. The irritating scratching sound your handwriting has. You are heartless. If you stabbed your pen in your heart to punish yourself, nothing would happen, because there is nothing there.
[Freddie would. But Freddie isn't here to say otherwise.]
There is very little marvelous about you. [well] All right, that is a lie. But at the moment it is so hard to marvel, because you are not taking me at all seriously. As if anyone would bother to read a paper written about elf ears.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
where are the emoticons
idk how about you invent them o mod
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Some sort of paddock. They were a gift from-- I suppose it was the Dalish, but they cannot be clear on that, and they're all writing things, now, it's almost impressive. Jeannot, they have halla, they keep them in a pen. They feed them Andraste-knows-what, they're--
[Almost in pain, please understand his pain:] Jehan!
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A lengthy pause.
A pause of sympathy?
Of confusion?
Both?
There's room for both in its length, definitely.
And then, gravely, not laughing at all, he's very good at repressing laughter, and Val isn't here to see the corners of his eyes crinkle: ]
You must set them free at once.
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[do you think he has not thought of that, of course he has thought of that, and yet--]
--that would be an insult. As if we should give a shit whether or not we would be insulting anyone so supremely dull-witted as to send a herd of wild creatures who eat grass to a BLOODY MOUNTAIN.
[He feels passionately. Can you tell.]
I want to free them. They deserve freedom. They deserve not to be kept under lock and key and forced to eat-- what will they eat, when the grass has died? What are they eating now? There is hardly vegetation. Remember when we went for a walk the other day, and all we saw were rocks and more rocks? And they weren't even interesting colors, these rocks. Very plain and grey. You like them. I detest them. Halla cannot eat them. I don't care what provisions these Dalish say they have made for them. They keep them traditionally. They know these secrets. Such secrets! But they still sent a pack of herbivores to a sodding mountain, Jeannot.
We must free them.
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Perhaps their secret, [ he muses, ] is oats.
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Oa-- Whose side are you on?
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[ Honestly. ]
What is wrong with oats? The horses eat oats.
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[--He offers, in a prayer, to... well, the Maker, probably. Maybe Andraste. She seems more reasonable in some ways.]
All right, yes, the Maker. But second to the Maker should be me, not some-- pack of know it all forest children with dewdrops in their knifey ears!
Look. It is simple. Will a deer eat oats? Yes, of course. Will a halla eat oats? Probably. I don't see why it wouldn't. But should a halla eat oats? Should it become reliant on horsefeed? Variety is best for the stomach. What's more, should we be diverting horse feed to the feedbags of the halla? We did not ask for them. We do not collectively believe that they should be kept, like common pets. Just because some little elves believe it is some birthright!
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[ There's quill scratching in the background. ]
After you have liberated their halla, you should ask them.
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Rain traps. As if I care about these things. I am telling you about a real problem. A trouble. An issue. And you talk about rain traps. And you are writing. I can hear it. The irritating scratching sound your handwriting has. You are heartless. If you stabbed your pen in your heart to punish yourself, nothing would happen, because there is nothing there.
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[ A pause. ]
Freddie would agree with me.
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[Freddie would. But Freddie isn't here to say otherwise.]
There is very little marvelous about you. [well] All right, that is a lie. But at the moment it is so hard to marvel, because you are not taking me at all seriously. As if anyone would bother to read a paper written about elf ears.