faderift | { mostly closed inquire within }

WHO: Lex Luthor, Gwenaëlle Vauquelin, Anders, U if you like??
WHAT: Crafting materials for fun, profit and presumably destruction, small people being gross
WHEN: Endish of Kingsway, backdated to before some assholes go for a walk.
WHERE: The ramparts, the Undercroft, a place of your choosing possibly
NOTES: warnings for small people being gross. I am not writing any open prompts but if you drum something up and toss it in that is A-OK

A. is for Anders:

Blaming the fact that Lex has not been the most visible person alive this month on the fact that he rarely leaves the Undercroft, he is, today ...uh, in the Undercroft. Probably he has become a staple there by sheer force of will. By now he knows where everything is - or was, before he wrangled it in all different directions to his liking - and may or may not have established himself as competent depending on how willing a person is to handwave that sort of thing. Because just writing 'Lex is in the undercroft!! Like he nearly always is!!' is going to get swiftly really boring as a prompt, today not only is Lex in the Undercroft, but a thing has happened that surely must have happened in game, don't tell me it hasn't, and that is: that huge open wall, plus mountains, means there is snow all over the place.

Lex is dealing with this pragmatically, and by that we mean he is using it to cool iron. So this is definitely a good time for anyone to give him like literally anything else to do. Literally. Anything.

B. ....is not the letter Gwen starts with, shit

There is a grotesque on the ramparts.

Or possibly there are several of them, actually; we haven't taken advantage of the fact that there is no fall damage in Skyhold recently enough to check. Either way the fortress seems like the kind of place that should have freaky little creatures clinging to its corners, curled up into themselves and staring out into the cold, clear night, and thus, it does. The fact that said freaky little creature is not, ostensibly, made of stone and is in fact Lex Luthor changes nothing.

Then again okay, probably actual grotesques don't amuse themselves with tossing small pieces of loose rock at completely arbitrary targets of their own design below (none of these are landing on people, it's fine), because like, that would be the equivalent of a person tossing pieces of flesh and that is. Hideous. We're sorry we thought of it.

The point is Lex has chosen to perch on the edge of the closest uh, rampart (do ramparts even have a singular form) next to one of the little busted towers that litter the top of the fortress, where it is quiet and there is almost no chance of anyone breaking into a drinking song.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It must be said that her thoughtful pause is not a pretense; she comes up here at this late hour for the quiet, mostly, for being so out of the way and unlikely to be bothered by anyone, least of all people who are unlikely to go looking for her clambering ridiculously up onto half-wrecked floors. It gives her peace to write, and keeps her out of the way, and -

"No," she decides. "No, I don't mind the company." Or, his company, particularly.

It isn't as if she's never chased anyone away from checking on her up here, it just doesn't happen terribly often.

After a moment, contemplatively, "I think Sister Nightingale takes an unwholesome pleasure in tipping me off balance, she'd probably enjoy that."

Ah, Lex remembers their meeting that was definitely not as brief as it seemed. Yes. "That's probably a sign that she likes you. I wouldn't lose sleep over it."

Then again they are both out here, clearly awake, at insomnia o'clock, so. Lex seems to realize this, the skew of his smile curving ruefully, and then since she isn't kicking him off the ramparts (....figuratively or literally), he unpeels himself from the ledge and picks his way carefully to her window, leaning comfortably on its outer sill. Which he can do without needing to lean down at all, because uh, the way he talks is not the only vague similarity he shares with dwarves.

"Then again," of the previously realized mutual sleeplessness, "it doesn't look like either of us are qualified to comment on that particular quirk."

Like, sleeping peacefully is just a colorful little attribute some people possess.

"I will sleep when I'm dead," Gwenaëlle says, lightly, "which I comfort myself will not be at her hands if only because it would upset Morrigan very much."

How premature it might be regardless is probably one of the many things she picks over when she isn't sleeping; the anchor-shards do not seem generous to life expectancy. (She thinks of the Dalish girl with one buried in her chest, and there but for the grace of Andraste goes she.) Hard to forget when her own hand is a light in the dark -

but it isn't as if she was sleeping so terribly well before, in Orlais.

This is probably a good time to ask if that canonical thing about elves' eyes reflecting light in the dark like cats do, except it's also like the worst time possible. Given Gwen's givens. But Lex was never going to ask anyway, so it's fine. He's equal parts wary of and fascinated by shard-bearers, like he is anything outside his immediate understanding; if he could unravel them from a good safe distance that would be ideal, but--well. Here he is, up close and personal, wanting to unravel is probably still a good word choice, but the reasons are different. Warmer, and unsettling.

Still, he laughs at all the angles of that information. "I'd like to have that insurance myself, but then wouldn't we all."

"We can't all be so clever and charming as I am," she says, arch, tilting to look at him properly now he's closer and she can without squinting out into the night. "What would be the point of being the best at anything if everyone was?"

Nothing, probably. Also, how could she then distinguish herself to the people whose attention she wants? (Not irrelevantly, 'warm and unsettling' seems like an apt descriptor for the fondness she inspires in most people she's inspired it in, all told, even the ones who actually know what the thing is and what to do with it. Here she is pushing things off shelves and staring around corners in the shadows, and somehow, clawing her way under the skin. Figuratively speaking. Mostly figuratively speaking.)

Hopefully not, since Lex isn't particularly interested in being one of many amongst a throng of adoring masses. It's not per say that she is unsettling, more the feeling she inspires in him. Which might be semantics but is in Lex's opinion an important distinction.

"To set the standard behind which others might struggle," he counters, which seems to him an adequate way to distinguish. Then again the corner of his mouth is crooked, so he's being somewhere between perverse and whimsical, probably.

"I think that's the point now," she says, pleased by the thought. Too pleased by it, probably, to sufficiently warm enough people to have anything like adoring masses; her charm is something of an acquired taste. "There's no one to be better than if everyone's marvelous. Someone has to be not marvelous."

Her lips quirk and she glances toward the castle -

"Aren't we lucky, then, with all of these people ready to fill that gap."

Speaking of claws.

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