(A beautiful book, old but still in good condition, if not a bit worn. A hard lacquer case covered in gold, a flowering tree with pheasants and deer. He touches the cover to feel the gold emboss against his fingers. He can recognize from the style right away that this isn't a book from Fodlan's collections. This is a book that has traveled far and carefully from across Fodlan's Throat.)
Why do you have this?
(He asks before she can answer before he takes a seat. He holds the book in his hand, still closed, and searches Dorothea for answers she eventually shares.
It makes sense when she explains it like that. He's not unfamiliar with the idea that stories have traveled across borders, mixing and melding with the local lore and becoming something else. He knows the story of the peasant and his three wishes to make a princess fall in love with. He'd laughed when he found a translation of old stories in the Derdriu library and read some of the decisions that had been made in them. Spirits changed to the Goddess and her Saints. Magic and wonder becoming divine miracles.
He takes the seat, holding the book in his lap, and opens it, turning each page carefully. Eyes look over the pictures and the writing and he can recognize right away that it's a book of poems. He's careful not to let his eyes linger too long on the words but he's able to tell from a glance who the poet is. Of course, it makes sense that if any book was going to make it into Fodlan, it would be one of Almyra's most famous,)
You must have made his day... (The merchant, that is. There are merchants that come to Fdolan to trade but it's always been understood that unless they had a particular buyer ready, they would always struggle and would never make as much as they would in other nations.
He stops at one page, a scene depicting some village girls gathered around a well. They draw water and sing with the birds while their flock of sheep gathers around them. It's such a simple, domestic scene; completely different from the paintings he's more likely to see in Fodlan depicting the warriors on mounts looking terrifying. ) Did he tell you what it was?
(He turns the page again, this one showing a man with a bow hiding among the bushes as he watches a doe at spring, the moon shining onto it.
His brow furrows as he makes out some faded writing in the margins of the page; a direct translation of the writing. He flips through a few more pages and can spot the same notes here and there. Someone has tried to translate what's in the book; usually the more famous poems. While not accurate, he can still feel their effort and he can't help but be endeared. He wonders who the amateur translator was. )
... I think we have the same book in Derdriu. (Not a lie. They do. It's one of his own books that he'd brought with him,) The cover is different but I recognize some of the pictures.
no subject
Why do you have this?
(He asks before she can answer before he takes a seat. He holds the book in his hand, still closed, and searches Dorothea for answers she eventually shares.
It makes sense when she explains it like that. He's not unfamiliar with the idea that stories have traveled across borders, mixing and melding with the local lore and becoming something else. He knows the story of the peasant and his three wishes to make a princess fall in love with. He'd laughed when he found a translation of old stories in the Derdriu library and read some of the decisions that had been made in them. Spirits changed to the Goddess and her Saints. Magic and wonder becoming divine miracles.
He takes the seat, holding the book in his lap, and opens it, turning each page carefully. Eyes look over the pictures and the writing and he can recognize right away that it's a book of poems. He's careful not to let his eyes linger too long on the words but he's able to tell from a glance who the poet is. Of course, it makes sense that if any book was going to make it into Fodlan, it would be one of Almyra's most famous,)
You must have made his day... (The merchant, that is. There are merchants that come to Fdolan to trade but it's always been understood that unless they had a particular buyer ready, they would always struggle and would never make as much as they would in other nations.
He stops at one page, a scene depicting some village girls gathered around a well. They draw water and sing with the birds while their flock of sheep gathers around them. It's such a simple, domestic scene; completely different from the paintings he's more likely to see in Fodlan depicting the warriors on mounts looking terrifying. ) Did he tell you what it was?
(He turns the page again, this one showing a man with a bow hiding among the bushes as he watches a doe at spring, the moon shining onto it.
His brow furrows as he makes out some faded writing in the margins of the page; a direct translation of the writing. He flips through a few more pages and can spot the same notes here and there. Someone has tried to translate what's in the book; usually the more famous poems. While not accurate, he can still feel their effort and he can't help but be endeared. He wonders who the amateur translator was. )
... I think we have the same book in Derdriu. (Not a lie. They do. It's one of his own books that he'd brought with him,) The cover is different but I recognize some of the pictures.