Fandom High School

"I am told that the end of your semester is fast approaching, which means most of you no longer care about this class so long as you pass and can be free to spend the summer in a lazy haze of inactivity," Morrigan began briskly. "Unfortunately, you are enrolled here, where classes continue, and you are with us, whom feel that learning does not cease with a change in seasons."

Translation: Yes, it's nice out. Suck it up. If Morrigan has to be here, so do you.

Oh, Morrigan. "You have no joy in your heart at all, do you?" Alistair asked. The point, Alistair. You're missing it. "Anyway," he said, "Next week, we'll be asking you to get up and defend something you're very passionate about. And because that's a big task--" Don't talk down to the class, Alistair, "--we thought we'd get you some more... material... to learn from."

"Which is to say that Alistair figured out the dee-vee-dee player, and wants to use it," Morrigan supplied helpfully. "So be it."

"I will have you know that the dee-vee-dee is a very effective teaching tool," said Alistair, who had read that in a book somewhere. "We found you a film about debating, and all the issues that are involved with it. You know, professionally. Not amateurishly, as Morrigan likes it." He held up the disc. He probably didn't need to put as much ceremony into inserting it into the DVD player, but he was just imitating what he'd seen in the little booklet with the pictures.

"Some things seem to remain universal," Morrigan drawled as the students arrived today. "No one likes snow, children are convinced vegetables are sent by demons, and the best friend of a man is generally a dog."

Beat.

"Because they share similar interests, smells, or intelligence levels, I know not."

Alistair's answering look was... a fairly epic bitchy scowl, actually. "I should have known," he said, "Of course you don't appreciate puppies. That would require having a heart."

"Nay, I appreciate wolf pups, or coyote, for they serve a purpose," Morrigan objected. "But you cannot deny 'tis true that wet-man and wet-dog often reek in similar fashions....unless the man be a mage, then it is usually a cat they befriend, not a dog. For the independence of a cat suits the fancies of a mage far more than dog-slobber does."

"Now cats are just evil," Alistair retorted. "They're not even really proper pets. They just run around and do their own thing! Seems useless if you ask me. Now a big, fluffy, adorable Mabari puppy... now that's a friend for life."

"What is it," Morrigan asked lazily, "with the male need to posses something completely? A cat has the intelligence to choose its friends, and amuse itself. Whereas the Mabari require more slavish attention and ownership than children. At least with offspring, they leave eventually."

"They're friends! They're friendly!" Alistair protested. "It's got nothing to do with possessing anything. Man's best friend. They back us up, is what they do. And they have those adorable big eyes. Have you ever gotten Mabari puppy eyes pointed at you before? Even you would melt!"

Why yes, they were turning their personal arguments into a class. Why do you ask?

"Welcome back!" Alistair called. "I'm sure you'll all be happy to hear that we've, ah, gone through the topic jar just to make sure that... everything is as it should be."

And/or that they hadn't put in anything they didn't know anything about themselves.

Morrigan was still rather convinced that the gremlins were tampering with their subjects, but she had yet to catch one in the act. Yet.

"Today we debate something near and dear to my heart," she said crisply. "Which, supposedly, you have in this country. Separation of religion and matters of state."

"Also known as 'keeping the Chantry's apostate-hating fingers away from the king'," Alistair said cheerfully. "Not that I don't feel Andraste's teachings should advise our leadership, but there is such a thing as taking it too far."

"Such as allowing the Chantry dominion over your citizenry upon mere suspicion of magic?" Morrigan asked, raising an eyebrow at him. "If one would be king, be king, and give not over your sovereignty to men who claim to speak for a divinity they can never understand."

"Nobody's talking about giving up sovereignty," Alistair muttered. "I just mean - Andraste's teachings are good. It's the Chantry that likes to twist it from time to time."

"So the Chantry ruling the mages, and the king rules everyone else, and that is not a problem of sovereignty?" Morrigan retorted. "Aye, for I cannot see how so much influence into how the realm works is not interference and not keeping separate laws of state and Chantry."

"But why keep Andraste's teachings out if they could do some good, outside the Chantry?" Alistair asked.

"If they are that good, why must they be thought of as Andraste's teachings and not common sense?" Morrigan countered. "I cannot think of a single woman - Andraste herself included - who would countenance the removal of a mage-child from its parents by force." Beat. "Save perhaps for that Templar-harridan in Kirkwall, but I suspect she be more demon than woman."

"In either event," she continued, not allowing Alistair a chance to speak, "let us hear you debate it. For 'tis certain a refrain you will hear the warden and I sing again."

"Military conscription in the United States has been employed several times, usually during war but also during the nominal peace," Morrigan began briskly. Yes, you'd all just been on a tropical vacation. No, she didn't care. "The United States discontinued the draft in 1973, moving to an all-volunteer military force, thus there is no mandatory conscription. However, the Selective Service System remains in place as a contingency plan; men between the ages of 18 and 25 are required to register so that a draft can be readily resumed if needed."

"That makes me wonder," Alistair mused philosophically. "Why are there so few women Wardens? I mean, we sort of get conscripted, and I don't think anyone signs up the men alone..."

"Because your city women end up with arranged marriages for heirs and that sort of thing, and the common woman is too smart to want to be a Warden," Morrigan offered dryly. "Chain mail is heavy and smells bad."

"Hey, I do not smell bad!" Alistair retorted. "You should try smelling yourself sometime." That weekend? That had been traumatic, Morrigan. Like, olfactory speaking.

"The point being that when conscription happens, usually the males take the brunt for whatever ridiculous reason," Morrigan continued, rolling her eyes. "Not just in this country, but others. Some have continued, mandatory military service, where both genders participate fully."

"Anyway," Alistair continued, "Is this a good thing or a terrible thing? I can't see the problem in any group fighting the good fight conscripting the people they need, if it's important..." It was what the Wardens had done for centuries, after all. "It's not necessarily a bad thing for the people, either. Some of us embrace the chance to be part of something a little bigger than ourselves... that is not the Chantry." Ew.

"There are, however, those who oppose military action or service on the grounds of moral or religious principles," Morrigan pointed out. "And it has been noted that military draft often appears to unfairly target the poor and lower middle classes, with children of rich families getting excused."

"Wouldn't get away with that in Ferelden," Alistair commented. "Well, not with the Wardens, anyhow."

"Oh, of course," Morrigan replied sweetly. "The Wardens will take anyone." Buuuuuuuuuurn!

"No, actually, we won't," Alistair said, giving her the side-eye. "What I mean is that if we use the Right of Conscription, anyone has got to come. Doesn't matter if you're an Arl's son. That seems right to me."

"So, instead, one organization is allowed the right to rip apart families for their own purposes, without answering to any sort of higher court or authority?" Morrigan asked. "My, how very like the Chantry and the Circle."

"The Grey Wardens are nothing like the Chantry," Alistair retorted. "We serve because we absolutely have to, not because of the whims of some Cleric or another."

"Who is it that determines you 'absolutely have to,' and why?" Morrigan challenged. "It is still the elite making decisions for the larger part of the populace."

Except that they didn't have time to argue all day. "Debate," she said shortly, waving a hand at the students. "Those of you in favor of military draft, with Alistair. Those opposed, with me. Then you'll get up and present your views and possibly be rebutted by your classmates."

"So welcome back to our class... class," Alistair began, smiling for all it was worth. "We thought we'd get you a bit warmed up and explain the rules of proper debate before we really get into it."

"Calling someone an idiot or a moron, for all that it may be accurate, is not considered the ideal of a debate," Morrigan informed them. "So be creative and eloquent in your insults to their mental capacity."

"Orrrrr, you could just avoid insults whatsoever," Alistair said. He was making an excellent case for nonverbal insults with the look he was giving Morrigan. "This is about convincing the other party to come around to your point, not making your head feel bigger."

"We managed to make a list," Morrigan continued, ignoring the Look as she untied a string from a large stack of hand-written papers and began passing them around. "These guidelines are ones that may be helpful for you."

...Someone needed to teach them about the photocopier.

"So, we'll divide the class up in people who are for whatever the topic is, and those who are against. So you can sit on the end of the room that corresponds to your needs," Alistair said cheerfully. "Every one on every side gets a minute to pose their argument, and then someone can reply... to that... I think that's how it works..."

"And today's topic is..." Morrigan reached into a little stone bowl and pulled out a piece of folded paper. "....pants verses my wardrobe?"

"I," Alistair declare, "Am firmly in the corner for pants." He stepped towards the left side of the class without missing a beat.

[OOC: OCD!]