[ open?? closed? schrödinger's log?? ] heroes always get remembered

[goodforsaken]

WHO: Lex Luthor, assorted guest stars, and YOU??
WHAT: General intro purposes? Get you some arms and armor made, Inquisition! Geek out in the library! Be confused by the incongruous noble all up in the Undercroft!
WHEN: Approximately now - the end of August.
WHERE: Skyhold: the Undercroft + Library + the buffet option
NOTES: Starters in comments. As it stands no warnings are required; I'll edit here a/o subject lines if that changes. Here is Lex's info post for anyone who'd like to run with the idea that they've heard of him/had contact before!

Being possessed of the incredibly informed opinion most not!Orlesians have of Orlais when they've only ever visited and spoken mostly to people wearing silly hats, Lex is more than comfortable with his first forays into the Inquisition taking place in Skyhold and not Halamshiral. That's where he's ultimately most useful anyway; he suffers no illusions regarding any diplomatic capabilities that don't involve ensnaring largeish globs of money.

The day side ....globbage occurs, however, is not this day or, nor is it whatever other days this log ends up involving. No, instead here we are in Skyhold, where Lex's general occupancy encompasses the following:

Comments

i. ᴡᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ʙᴜɪʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ (the UNDERCROFT)

[goodforsaken]

Wildly presuming the Undercroft contains more than like ...a single dude and his assistant the fantastic mustache*, this was Lex's first investigation upon arrival. Before settling in to the private room in the noble quarters he will almost never visit, before unpacking anything aside from the necessary tools, before shunting his small NPC cabal of "volunteers" off to see to an obsessively details list of tasks, before so much as sitting down. He'll sit down when he's dead!

A few days from that point this remains the most likely place to find him: sorting through the assorted materials available, deep in work on tasks assigned long before he got there, generally digging carabiners in and making himself right at home. The aforementioned volunteers (read: his employees) have taken care of spreading any unofficial word required there's a new smith around for whatever needs members of the Inquisition might have, especially those who have particular specializations to adhere to. He's the average human without any special abilities, so all your enchanting needs will still need to be carried out elsewhere, but beyond that he exists pretty much to be tested.

*his actual mustache, not Dagna

[apostafuckyou]

The word spread had reminded Raylan of a problem, so one afternoon, he headed on down to the undercroft, holding his very sad staff.

He had no idea what was involved in repairing -- for all his inept whittling, no one had ever wanted to trust him with something that might shoot fire if he touched it wrong. So he came through the door and planted the butt of the staff on the ground (the blade had broken down to a nub long ago). A young man with red hair that Raylan didn't recognize was near the door. "Hey," he called out. "You that new fella?" Raylan figured he might as well get in before the man got loaded down and a wait time developed.

if i lapse into present tense just shriek in my ear

[goodforsaken]

Lex looked up from what appeared to be an ankle-deep pile of scrap metal; some of it was useful, some of it he wouldn't have used to make equipment for someone he really, really wanted to see perforated a great many times. (Beginning as we meant to go on in regards to figurative language, apparently.) "That new fella would be me," he drawled, syllables elongated and reasonably friendly, at least for the moment.

He stood and made his hands reasonably presentable, although that was only so possible when a person spent a great deal of the day bathing in soot, but they were clean enough to shake with - which he didn't - or handle a weapon, which he ...also didn't, once he'd crossed the floor to be able to view at critical distance the supposed staff planted before him. "This is something you're bringing me as an example of how not to do my job, I hope."

Ah yes. Lex Luthor, king of tact.

i look forward to being able to shriek

[apostafuckyou]

"Something like that," Raylan said, holding the staff out to Lex. "It's broken. Needs mending." He perched his hands on his skinny hips once Lex took it, looking it over. "Been sittin' in the corner of my laboratory for most of a month, not doin' much of anything. Ain't had much need for it," he admitted.

[goodforsaken]

Lex takes it like it's going to stain his hands, which is saying something for a person liberally smeared with sweat and soot. His little laugh up-pitches, an awkward sound not because he feels particularly awkward in the moment, that's just 10% of his core makeup at any given time. "That explains how you've still got--mm, all your limbs."

Because really, if he'd been doing much fighting with this ...disaster. Stone protect you, buddy. He hefts the thing in one hand; it's heavy enough to require some effort, but--"This wasn't made for you, was it?" That's a rhetorical question; if the answer is yes he will be even more appalled. "Hand-me-down? Generic staff stockpile? It's weighted completely wrong for your height."

The Inquisition presumably does not have time to make everyone's weapon from scratch, so there are some metal, wood and stone bases stacked against one wall. "Pick out a few of those that feel natural. Not like they're about to pitch you facedown. That would be a disadvantage when trying to defend yourself, yes."

[apostafuckyou]

Raylan raised his eyebrows, and considered saying something along the lines of being unsure how Lex was going to fix the weighting, but he decided he probably shouldn't tell anyone how to do their job. So he went over to the bases.

He was able to pick the ones that were likely just from sight, and gave each of those few a spin before carrying back a couple. They were all roughly the right height for him, though probably lighter and slimmer than Lex was expecting -- Raylan favored speed over sheer brute strength, whether magical or physical.

"This one's the best," he said, tapping the one made of some bluish metal. "But these are all pretty good. And to answer the question, it was the best option out of what was left in the store room when I finally left my Circle. I was one of the last." Raylan had a terrible feeling he was the last, as in, the few he'd left behind had never made it out.

[goodforsaken]

Well, that told him what attachments not to use, i.e. not the more uh, bludgeony ones. That mage staffs functioned as physical weapons in addition to their magic properties was relatively new in his base of knowledge, but he was enjoying incorporating it. Meanwhile:

'One of the last' got a noncommittal acknowledgment noise; that sounded (he erroneously assumed) like further response might incur the sticky, pungent horror of personal details, [disgusted noise]. "Glad to hear it's not top of the line merchandise."

Dry as dust. Although as an explanation for why the Circles hadn't rebelled sooner he'd have accepted it: because they all would have died immediately. He gestured for the blueish staff, made the same considering hefting gesture before tossing it from hand to hand. "If you had to stab something in a pinch, could you? Or would you just wind up being eaten. I can work with either, I just prefer specifics. When possible. Something whoever made this staff either forgot about or never knew in the first place."

Ughhhh.

[apostafuckyou]

"A thing that's been stabbed can probably still eat me," Raylan pointed out. "But I wouldn't get gummed to death by an elderly nug if I had a good blade." Which was a roundabout way of saying that yes, he could stab things. It was maybe a little attempt to needle the man, who, while extremely squirrelly, seemed like a pretty direct type.

"That still had half the blade on it when I got it," he said, nodding to the staff he still considered 'his' and not 'garbage'. "Ain't missed it too much, though." But, again, he hadn't done a lot of fighting. Holed up in his shack, most of those who came by looking for trouble could be scared off by some theatrics, and he didn't need the staff for that.

[goodforsaken]

Lex elects to just ignore the smartassery, because like ...he has work to do, and that is five hundred times more important and interesting than banter. "I see. Do you think if you had a proper staff and not an oversized toothpick the Inquisition might make you work for a living?"

towards the end of august eh eh

[eviscerates]

She is a woman with a mission. It's a ridiculous mission, but it's a mission all the same. Ruby has a piece of paper rolled up in her hand, and crosses to the undercroft early in the day - early enough that hopefully she won't be detected making her way there, even if there probably are plenty of reasons for an artificer visiting the Undercroft not being at all suspicious.

A knock, and then she pushes the door open, sticking her head through curiously. "Hi. Is this a bad time?"

[goodforsaken]

"No worse than usual," contends Lex, sticking his head up from a pile of armor designs over at his little workstation. It's humorous; the fact that he can hear her at all says it's at least a better time than if he were like, engulfed in flames!

He puts down his quill, although apparently he's waiting on details before deciding whether or not he needs to get up for this. "Can I help you?"

ahhh sorry i had this open in a tab and forgot to reply

[eviscerates]

Well, those flames, you know? They're so inconsiderate, and loud. She's glad she managed to miss them, this time around.

"Great!" She sort of bounces in, a certain amount of spring in her step as she moves forward. Smiles and energy make up a solid percentage of the Ruby Lucas package. "I'm Ruby," she starts, with a little wave, her other hand holding a roll of paper. "And if you aren't horribly busy and it isn't somehow... I don't know, below your standards or something, I was hoping to commission something?"

The most? Hopeful? Smile?

[seesobserves]

Well. Not quite a single dude and his mustache.

One of the workstations in the Undercroft sports an array of equipment more delicate than the type used for smithing. There are glass vials, and jars of herbs and powder strewn all over the top of it. Take care, should you wish to go poking around at the contents: some of them are booby-trapped. Sherlock's dealt with people nosing into his things before.

When Sherlock comes down for a day's work and finds the place crawling with volunteers and activity, he stops short just inside the door, taking in the whole scene before brusquely and wordlessly moving toward his station.

The first thing he'll be doing is check to make sure no one's tampered with his things.

Late august.

[justice_is_blond]

A new smith is always interesting. They bring different experience, different styles, and Anders tends to be curious about what's new. He appreciates fashion, and nice-looking, useful things, which means he drops by and watches the new employee for a time. He seems to be making his way around the undercroft as if he knows what he's doing, so Anders approaches after a good fifteen minutes.

"Are you the new smith?"

[goodforsaken]

Heyyyyy, Lex also appreciates fashion, how exciting. ...or not, but it is an observable detail; his clothes are within the bounds of what's appropriate for the work, but also highly individualized and well made. He also should, as per previous mention, probably be wearing about the same hairstyle Anders is, but isn't, wavy hair just floating around his face like he's impervious to fire or something. Which he is absolutely not.

"That would be me, yes." His head tilts, birdlike to go with the rest of his general...birdness. Anders will just have to fill in on the feathers part, since he does lack those. "Are you asking to satisfy curiosity, or is there something I can do for you?"

[justice_is_blond]

Luckily for them both, Anders has plenty of feathers on his shoulders. His hair is also more safely pulled back, though it's back for looks rather than awareness of how dangerous the undercroft may be.

"A little bit of both, really. I don't wear armor, mage," and he watches the man as he says the word, wary, "but someone I care about is an archer. I've been thinking of getting something for him, but I like to see styles first because I don't know what I want. I don't know what would suit him best."

[goodforsaken]

Lex doesn't react any more strongly to 'mage' than he does 'someone I care about,'; they both seem to be concepts he perceives on the other side of a wide gulf to him, in the neutral sense that countries to the opposite shores of the sea might be. "I need his measurements," he informs Anders, as a starting point, "although as far as I can make out there's as much reason for a mage to be wearing armor as an a archer, isn't there?"

He puts his hands up between them, mimes what could be either a spell from a staff or bow from an arrow. Both distance fighting, both requiring fluidity of movement, both ...squishy flesh creatures, etc.

[justice_is_blond]

He approves of the lack of upset when it comes to mages, and relaxes a little, leaning against a wall.

"Magic is individual, in some ways. And what suits me best is a lot of movement, which means heavy armor slows me down and slows down my magic. I do wear bracers on a mission, but robes move the best." That, and they're pretty. "I do wear bracers into combat. I've a nice pair, made by one of our previous smiths. They'll catch a sword or axe well enough. Generally, though..."

Anders shrugs. "As far as measurements go, I was thinking bracers as well." He holds out a piece of parchment with numbers on it - Nate's bracer sizing. "But I was wondering if you'd any of your work to show. Not that I doubt your skill. I'd simply like to see your style."

mid-to-late august.

[elegiaque]

The next time Gwenaëlle finds him, it's in the same place as the last time - a bit less harried, none of the birdlike distraction that made it seem like she might blow out again with the wind in her haste to look at everything and be done again. Asher is gone, his funeral done, almost everyone she knows in Skyhold either in Orlais or off on some other adventure; there's no where else she urgently needs to be this very minute.

"Hello," she says, blithely, as if she makes a habit of visiting the undercroft.

(She does not.)

"I thought I would - see if you'd had any time for Kieran's dragon." She doesn't expect finished, but maybe something to look at. Besides anything else she might have come down here, incidentally, to look at.

[goodforsaken]

Well, if anything else might have been Lex's arms, they are all ...out and stuff, just being muscley and lean and awful how dare he--anyway. The look he gives her highlights that this is not exactly a usual haunt for her, but not in the sense that she can be expected to state her business quickly (even though she does) and then resume unhaunting it. It's just wry. As is the "Lady Vauquelin," with which he greets her, gesturing expansively in a 'one moment please' little wave.

The fact is, her being here isn't any more a departure than his not completely ignoring a person who doesn't have some direct benefit to him, so, not a bad start. Lex's player does not have all the talents he does, so this is ...definitely stolen from the internet, but look, we have to have something for our pretendy funtimes here and no one is making any money, so! So. Like most Thedosians he's never seen a dragon, but he did all that research and found enough similar elements to have created cohesive imagery. For a medium sized child, probably the most important element is that it has lots and lots of teeth.

Which Gwen may indeed look at! Along with all the rest of the important dragony bits, probably most closely resembling that Ferelden Frostback guy everyone tries to kill while they're way underleveled. Nothing assembled or finely detailed yet, but coming along.

"You're not in Halamshiral," he observes, somehow making it sound like this is a profound depth of discovery. Then again the fact that he gives even the remotest of shits is kind of profound, to be honest.

[elegiaque]

The arms are a problem. Or a solution, depending on your perspective, certainly to the immediate problem of 'not knowing any other smiths particularly well to ask this of', and also 'having something to look at when she visits the Undercroft', which in fairness is a problem she wouldn't have otherwise because she's never visited the Undercroft prior to following Yngvi's recommendation here.

It's all very complicated.

Plans and parts of dragons are much more immediately compelling than talking about Halamshiral - she very nearly just wiggles her shard-hand under his nose, but a glance sideways and some forethought and, all right, he is probably being slightly more specific. In this case. What with everyone having taken off to Orlais, specifically. She curls her fingers into her sleeve, instead, mostly instead of fidgeting with the edge of her neckline where she isn't even a little bit self-conscious about the scarring. Not even at all.

"Lots of people are in Halamshiral," she says, shrugging, unhooking her reading glasses from their chain at her hip to get a better look at the plans he's assembling. "Doing lots of terribly useful things, I'm sure. I'd only get in the way."

[goodforsaken]

Lex's eyeline follows her hand and drops; like a corvid of some kind it's like he's attracted to the movement, but it doesn't linger. He probably would have looked at her neckline the same way, a mixture of curiosity the way he looks at everything, then a sort of--especial layer of that, not the type of glance he gives much else.

If she likes she can actually pick up a few of the prototype pieces to look at, because eyeballing up little disconnected dragon legs and wings and heads is definitely what she came here to do, right? Right!

"I feel much the same, actually," he informs her; it's humorous, one hand curved around his mouth like they're sharing a confidence of the most intimate sort. "Not about getting in the way. But I have trouble imagining you making yourself deliberately unobtrusive."

[elegiaque]

Right, definitely, which is why it's one of those dragon wings her fingers tighten around when he makes his observation - presses her lips together in a small, odd smile and shakes her head, a little rueful in a way that she doesn't seem to be immediately inviting him into. "People keep saying things like that to me, lately," she says, holding the wing up beside the plans on paper and squinting at it, imagining.

"But I don't think there's anyone's attention in Orlais I'm in such dire need of," more lightly, smiling the very slight distance up at him. (There probably aren't a lot of people in Skyhold shorter than Lex, but she manages to be one of them.) "They can all read my work the same as anyone else without my being there to watch them do it, I think."

And she much prefers that.

[goodforsaken]

It's true, according to a certain unofficial Skyhold census the people shorter than he are pretty much entirely elves and dwarves, hurr. Whatever, that just means he's closer to the Stone. Which if he believed in any religious concept, it would be that. He doesn't, however--what he does believe in is the ability of a person to be exceptional on their own merits. To wit:

"Do they? Should I be pleased to be upholding common standards? Or embarrassed to be so common?"

Ha, ha ha. He's just going to rest on the idea that while it might not be dire, he could probably hold her attention here. At least a little. With ridiculous wordplay and dragon parts.

[elegiaque]

Gwenaëlle scrutinises him carefully, which is really only helped by the fact she does it over the thin, gold rims of her reading glasses, lips quirked to one side, a little tilt back of her chin to get, presumably, the more thorough picture of the man. That she doesn't actually frame him with her fingers is presumably a show of unprecedented restraint in a young lady not known for that at all, except when trying to get Sisters Nightingale to become less interested in her and her affairs.

"I don't think," she says, at length and after apparently much deliberation, "that you are either very common or think yourself to be."

And she doesn't mean the title, although 'nobleman becomes blacksmith' is sort of inherently unlikely, and one of the things which caught the attention he now has and might yet hold. He doesn't seem quite in step with everything around him, but indifferently, in the same sort of a way as she's so admired in Morrigan.

Standing in the middle of a river and saying, you, water. Go around me.