flamen_turbulentum

FORM: Written in an elegant hand and posted on the board and at other gathering spots.
SENDER: Vergilius Vulpinus, Chantry Brother
RECIPIENT: Anyone whatsoever, rifters in particular.
WHAT: A call to rifters to recount their origins.
WHEN: Timing (backdated, covering a span, etc.)
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: This is the first step in Vergil's ambition to build an omnibus of other worlds, and an attempt to make just a little cosmological sense of things.

Name: Malarkey
Age: 30
Contact: malarkeyinc on plurk
Other Characters: N/A
Interests: Political intrigue, especially stirring up trouble - finer points of theology and metaphysics


Name: Vergilius Vulpinus
Canon/OC: Dragon Age OC
Journal: flamen_turbulentum
Race: Human
Nationality: Tevinter
Occupation: Chantry Priest
Age: 32

History

The Familia Vulpini is a Tevinter success story, a testament to the mutability of class in the Imperium. Starting as mere merchant soporati, through the leveraging of certain debts and the greasing of certain palms they managed to ascend to the status of a respectable if unremarkable laetan family with pseudo-hereditary Chantry positions in Asarial, a coastal city not far south of the Imperial Capital. While barred from altus status, at least until a dreamer genealogy can be forged, the socially mobile Vulpini place high value on their hard-won advancement in Tevinter society.

Vergilius Vulpinus, youngest child of four, was unlucky enough to be born a living reminder of the Vulpini's past irrelevance. An early disappointment, with essentially no magical talent, his ineligibility for advantageous marriage, let alone a real role in politics, saw him the subject of mostly benign neglect. Neither supported nor censured, he lived a life of wealth and security without interference beyond the demand that he not embarrass himself or the family. When he came of age he was shuffled into a low ranking Chantry position, a clerical role so as to keep him busy and mostly out of sight.

This pragmatism, consigning him to a kind of institutional exile, might have made Vergil cynical but instead he found considerable solace in the Chant of Light. He'd been a silver-tongued lad almost since he could first speak, but within the enchanting, unifying power of the Chant he found the basis for a kind of sanctity in language: words as a way of bridging the divide between the Maker and his creation. He also learned that his penchant for wordsmithing served him well in theological debate, a field where magical trickery is at its least applicable.

But, thanks to social conditions in the Imperium, at the age of two and thirty years Vergil has hit the glass ceiling for non-mages that exists even within the Imperial Chantry. Given the choice between ambition and acceptance, the sly young cleric decided to cast the die and head southwards for Skyhold. If he is to rise past his current place in the power structure of Tevinter, he must make a name for himself (and perhaps find a mage-blooded wife), and the south - with the collapse of the Orlesian Chantry and the rising Inquisition - promises to hold just those opportunities.

Personality

Vergilius has had to make up for his lack of magical talent his whole life. Being a non-mage in a laetan family meant that he was almost instantly considered irrelevant to any meaningful social engagement, passed over as an addendum and then typically dismissed. His only means of attracting any meaningful positive attention was through personal charm, leading him to develop a sardonic charisma that made full use of his non-importance to skirt certain social norms and expectations. In a role not unlike that of the jester, Vergil found he could get away with saying unexpected or even shocking things without serious repercussions, a quality that won him a certain regard so long as he was not truly disruptive.

The fact that his very existence needed to be actively justified has made him an argumentative person, a quality that meshes well (or poorly, depending on your perspective) with his penchant for silver-tongued insinuation. This habit has only been further honed by his time debating points of doctrine and scripture with his fellow chantry brothers, one of the few times in his life where he gained complimentary distinction. He is particular fond of prodding at controversy, often playing devil's advocate, or attempting to recast the prevailing discourse in a novel way.

His low social profile, and somewhat devil-may-care attitude, has led him to a discreetly libertine lifestyle. Fond of wine and comely companionship, Vergil has long relied on the wealth of his family to fund routine bouts of excess. Despite this hedonistic streak, Vergil is a genuinely devout follower of the Chant of Light. He even possesses a well-worked-out theological justification for his debauchery, one grounded in a doctrine of loving the world the Maker has provided for his creations.

He is also at least minimally reformist, interested in encouraging gradual but noticeable change into Imperial society. He is ambitious, but has the conspiring, indirect ambition of someone barred from the proper channels. More likely to engineer a coup than lead one, and more likely to pick up after a revolution than fight in one, he is a schemer with mostly good intentions, tempered by a typically human self-interest.

Strengths & Weaknesses

Vergil's greatest assets are his silver tongue and his capacious mind, both trained by years in the Imperial Chantry. He is well-spoken and charismatic, as comfortable at a party as behind the pulpit, with the considerable weight of Imperial history and Chantry scripture behind him. While effectively barred from Imperial politics-proper, he is conversant by way of exposure and interest - Chantry politics in particular are of importance to him, being the only game he is permitted to play. This makes him politically conversant in general terms, though it may take him some time to get used to southern culture.

He has suffered all his life from the detriment of his non-mage status, and thus is used to being an outsider even at home. It has also left him with something of a muted inferiority complex, and quietly nursed resentment towards the thoughtlessly powerful inside the Imperium. Despite the grudge he bears, he abhors open conflict that is not carefully bounded within the safety of language. He is prone to plot and scheme, not to confront, and will retreat from danger almost as soon as it rears its head.

Inventory

traveling clothes
black velvet skullcap
black velvet vestments
copy of the Chant of Light, Imperial Edition
guidebook to fereldan
coinpurse w/ decent sum of fereldan and nevarran currency
walking stick w/ hidden dagger

Motivation

Vergil's reasons for heading south the find the Inquisition are twofold. First, he harbors an ambition to gain official recognition of the Chantry in Tevinter, a feat that he imagines would be sufficient to see him propelled into prominence despite his lack of magical ability. Second, he hopes to find a nice southern mage-girl to woo and marry (or at least to knock up), so as to make his personal lineage relevant, since presently his non-mage status makes him nigh-on unmarriagable.



"Magic is made to serve man, not rule over him."

Vergil referred as little as possible to the vellum before him, on which his disputatio was written. His eyes were on the assembled, all black-robed and black-capped Brothers. Above their heads dust motes danced in the long shafts of afternoon light that sloped into the Chantry from the summer sky outside.

"Contentious words. Words whose interpretation led to the woeful splitting of the unified Chantry into two competing political entities."

This was a tricky thing to claim, alleging any politics to their Chantry, the true Chantry. But he knew his brothers were not fools, even if they occasionally acted like it. Still, his next rhetorical move was thus decided. Tear down the South, so as not to seem too sympathetic, too equivocal.

"Their misreading of this sacred commandment is the Southern Heresy's greatest stumble, more even than their idolization of Andraste, Maker bless her name. No- it is their mistrustful attitude towards magic and its place in the Maker's creation."

Though he knew it was warm outside, here in the recitarium it was unaccountably chilly, as if the severity of centuries had insured that no season as languorous as midsummer could impinge on the seriousness of theological discourse.

"What the Chant of Light teaches is control. A control not of mages but by mages, a control over their own power, a power that - by definition - is Maker-sent."

Any animosity his previous words might have inspired was likely defused by now. He had done what must be done: criticize their Southern counterparts, and assert the legitimacy of governance by mages. He was safe, enough, now, to make more meaningful assertions.

"A abomination is not abominable because it is magical. A man who in rage or jealousy slays another man is also abominable in the Maker's sight, is also seized by a wicked passion, but is simply unable to blame it upon spiritual interference. No- the mage who has become abominable is so because magic has come to rule the man, instead of the man ruling the magic.

"In the South, in the Orlesian Chantry, they believe magic cannot truly be controlled. And so their mages live in fear of their own power, as much as of their Templars, who fear them in turn.

"But you cannot control that which you fear, because control - like all expressions of power - emanates from the Maker, and without His blessing all human exercises of power are tyrannical. Faith is the only antidote to the seduction of power, its sole sanctification. And fear and faith are antipodal, anathema to one another.

"In embracing faith and power, both, our nation has endured longer than any other nation of men, surviving grave travail and finding redemption in the Chant of Light. And the consequence of a lack of faith in the Maker, and in those upon whom He bestowed magical power, can be seen in the civil war that even now tears the South apart."

If this were the Senate floor, he'd have received an ovation. Here, in the recitarium, he was treated to polite nods at most. Of course, he'd never be permitted to speak before the Senate. Even if it were permitted, no one would there would take him seriously. They barely took him seriously here. No matter how carefully he constructed his arguments, no matter the extent of his theoretical and theological knowledge, he knew they believed his words had no real power- not power as they understood it.

Yet the Chant of Light was not magic. It was language, a communication from man to man about the will of their common Maker. And while these - his brothers - thought him the sleeper, they were the ones who had closed their eyes to this truth. Magic or no, it was words - and words alone - that could reunite the world.

---

Vergil was at least half a bottle into the evening when three men approached him, spoiling for a fight. He knew what they wanted from the belligerence in their faces, an aggressive truculence common to all men who prefer to end each evening with bloody knuckles. He almost regretted not staying in a roadhouse, however shabby the accommodations. He'd have run less risk of crossing the locals. But the potables in such places were unbearable, and some risks were worth taking.

Their leader addressed him. There was always a leader in crews like this.

"Oi- 'vinter. Who said you could drink here?"

Oh dear. It was worse than he'd thought. How had they guessed? Had he accidentally paid in Imperial currency? Had he lapsed into Tevene and not noticed? It seemed unlikely. He didn't think he was that drunk.

"Pardon me?" It wasn't about to get him anywhere, asking for clarification. But it might but him a little time.

"I can smell a 'vinter a mile away, and you reek, boy."

Vergil doubted that. He smelled of sweat and road dust and wine- like any number of people here. It was a lucky guess, maybe. Something about him must have suggested 'foreigner'. Thinking him a 'vinter' was just a convenience. An excuse. This was mere pretext, then. And if that was the case, there was no point denying what was being assumed. They would beat him within an inch of his life for what they thought he was, and then send him over the edge for daring to lie about it.

"Guilty as charged-" Vergil answered with a smile, "tell me, my good man- what is it you know of Imperial citizens?"

"You lot are all slavers and blood mages." Half accusation, half statement of common knowledge. Funny how the two so often went hand in hand. It was also just what Vergil had expected him to say. Vergil kept smiling. If anything, the smile got wider. Bright and white and broad, he bore his grin like a shield.

"This is the part where I'm supposed to say 'no, no, you've got it all wrong, there are good people in Tevinter'-" Vergil spread his hands, a pantomime to match pusillanimous defense.

Then his hands moved to his walking stick, a deliberate and deliberately conspicuous gesture, fingers folding over the stubby silver snout of the foxhead set atop it.

"The truth, however, is that we are all blood mages. At least everyone who matters. And blood magic is just the tip of the shark's fin- the stuff your mages do here, the Mortalitasi?"

The walking stick contained very little danger - just a hidden shank, useful in a pinch, but more likely to get him beaten to death than to save his life. But these provincial nitwits didn't know that. He could rely on their ignorance and superstition if on nothing else.

"Child's play. Everything you people learned, you learned from us. Everything you know, we've known for centuries longer. And we are much, much better at it."

He could see it in their eyes. Not just fear, fear could go either way, fear couldn't be relied upon, not by itself. Fear was just as likely to get him killed, or at least beaten to a point of ugliness that would make life unfit for living. No- what he saw was much more promising. What he saw was doubt.

"You don't see any guards with me, do you? Of course- you wouldn't have dared give me such a welcome otherwise."

His fingers tightened on the tarnished silver foxhead.

"But be serious- do you think I would walk into a Navarran tavern unprotected?"

There it was. The bluff hung in the air between them. In this moment, this stupid, trivial moment, his life - or at the very least the integrity of his mortal shell - hung in the balance. It was in the Maker's hands, now.

And the Maker was good. Good enough to let Vergil tarry a little longer in the world from which He'd turned away, at least. Vergil knew it was settled the moment the leader's two friends turned to look at one another. That doubt, that sweet, ambrosial doubt, was spreading like spilled wine.

It was time to change the tone. Like a well-planned dinner party, he'd served them bitterness, so now it was time for the sweet. Vergil fished a trio of coins from within his traveling clothes, and tossed them onto the bar.

"A round, please, for my very wise Navarran friends."