for notes, letters, and other exchanges
- the door to Samson's room is guarded by an armed man; open-door visitors may come and go during appointed hours; private visits may be held with permission from the appropriate authority (or by bypassing the guard somehow, if you're so determined)
- paper messages may be exchanged; all contents will be skimmed by an officer unless delivered surreptitiously
- he has no sending crystal nor any message book at this time
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It's gloomy here, too; all muddy and wet. Barkley has snuggled under the blankets and furs with me at night, and hogs them all while we're traveling during the day. Honeysuckle and I sit outside while we travel in our own blankets; he's quite cross whenever we have to cross water, since it's so cold. I was able to get some sugar from a trader, though, which makes him more willing to do it.
I hope you continue to have good dreams - and I'm glad that my letters have helped! There may be times when I'm not able to send them, but know that I will when I get a chance. I hope you're able to save them and can reread them; I save all of yours.
I realized I don't know how you came to the Marches. Were you born there? I like knowing about people, especially those I care about.
Your friend,
Merrill
[ There's a doodle of a grumpy-looking horse. There's a slightly more intricate drawing of flowers, trees, a waterfall, and the sun, as well, along with a scribbled "I'm not very good at drawing Andraste" next to the sun. ]
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Dear Merrill,
Your last letter filled me nearly to bursting – and just like that, I remembered everything, and the dream came crashing down around me. And I just sat and hid under the rubble like a coward. That's why you've had to wait this long for a reply.
Merrill, I'm afraid we have drifted too far from the reality of things.
You must have noticed the difference in my handwriting by now. The tremor has nearly gone... at least for a few hours after my dose. It's still not enough, but now I can sleep again. All it took was a trade.
I bartered the safety of my men for lyrium, Merrill. I tried not to give away too much, but that little bit I let slip could be enough to do some real harm. I might as well have gone out and killed them myself. My own men. That's who you've come to care about.
For your own sake: don't forget who I am and what I've done.
Samson
[No doodles this time.]
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Dear Samson,
Your men were already not safe. I've studied the red lyrium. I was there in Kirkwall, after all. I met Corypheus when he drew Hawke to him. Your men have a better chance with the Inquisition, even as prisoners, of surviving. Just as you do.
But if that doesn't soothe, then let me tell you of what I've done.
I left my clan because they believed I would harm them, because I was attempting to cleanse an ancient artifact of the Blight. My mere presence caused members of my clan to run away and straight into traps, straight into their deaths. Years later, my Keeper let herself be possessed because she thought that I would be possessed instead. After I had to kill what she became, I had to kill my entire clan - because they would not listen when I said that the Keeper had become an abomination, because they attacked me for killing her.
I killed my clan, my people, my family. I will never get that blood off my hands. I will never be welcome among the People again.
You are not the only one who has done things they regret.
Merrill
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Most of what I want to say concerns the war and would be blocked out on review. That might be for the best, since none of it's very nice.
There is no comfort in knowing that you understand what it means to be an outcast – to be soaked in blood. The specifics of your story offer even less, if we are to be honest. Should it still matter to me, after what I've become? I don't know that it should, but in that place not yet dead, deep inside my worthless guts, it does matter.
Don't forget who I am and what I've done.
I'm sorry it had to be your family.
Samson
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Dear Samson,
People are suspicious, wary. They do not always question authority. They did not question my Keeper. I imagine you have had plenty of instances without questioning authority yourself, on both ends of the spectrum. Hawke used to tell me that what happened to my Keeper and my clan wasn't truly my fault; that they made their own choices. Sometimes, I even let myself believe it.
I may not be able to write for a while. I'm going somewhere without much in the way of mail service. If you will have the guards send any letters you may write to Ellana Ashara, I will be able to pick them up from her. I'm in Skyhold as I write this; I wanted to visit, but I wasn't sure if you would want to see me. I thought it best not to risk it.
If you don't wish to hear from me any longer, I understand.
Still your friend,
Merrill
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He's squeezed inside by a cold fist when his thoughts drift to Merrill, or their friendship, or the mess he fears he'd have made of it—just like he makes a mess of everything—so he does his best not to. He throws himself into what little work he's given. He nearly tears the head off of anyone who attempts to ask him about the letters or why they've stopped.
And then, the move...]