faderift | [OPEN] I've got ideas, but it's nothing I picked up at school

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[OPEN] I've got ideas, but it's nothing I picked up at school

WHO: Vandelin and anyone else!
WHAT: Concussions. (Among other things.)
WHEN: Any time during the month.
WHERE: The library and the clinic.
NOTES: Always happy to add another starter!

1. Library

There's very little that Vandelin actually misses about the Circle, and still less that he would ever admit to missing--but the one thing he'd appreciate having back, even if he'd never cop to it, is a library that accommodates short people well. Perhaps Hasmal's library had been designed by an elven mage, or perhaps its low shelves and abundant stepladders were simply coincidental conveniences, but he'd never had any trouble reaching a book he wanted back there.

Well, there's nothing for it. He's not about to just ask someone for help. Checking carefully to make sure nobody's watching, he places a chair in front of the shelf, stacks a couple thick textbooks on top of it, and gets climbing.

2. Clinic

The chair had looked stable. Vandelin will maintain until his dying day that his makeshift stepladder had been a perfectly decent idea while it lasted. He has, in fact, been insisting this all the way to the clinic, with slightly slurred words, to the annoyance of the guy who's taken it upon himself to escort the poor concussed elf there so that he isn't wandering aimlessly around Darktown with a huge target on his back.

The walk has at least done him a bit of good, and he is slightly more lucid when he makes his way through the door, off-balance and bruised and leaning on his staff. "Is there a...wait, or can I just see a healer?"

3. Wildcard

Surprise me!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

One of the aides comes up at the question, looking him over and tutting before she slips away. A few moments later she's replaced by Anders, making his way between little tables and clusters of people.

"I'm told your look like you've a head injury? For that there isn't a wait. Please, have a seat on a cot." There's also the benefit of coming in with a staff. Anders cares about the people of Darktown a great deal, but mages are his people. Mages are the ones he'll look out for the most.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" He's grabbing a stool as he asks, which will be brought over to whichever cot the mage chooses to sit down on.

Edited 2017-07-01 08:42 (UTC)

It is very important, in Vandelin's rattled mind, that he not appear incapacitated in any way ever, even when he is. He looks mildly put-out.

"I didn't know I looked like I had a head injury," he says. "But it's good that you can tell these things. That's what healers are for, it's good that you can..."

Distracted from finding a proper conclusion to the sentence, he tries to sit down authoritatively on a cot, misjudges the distance by an inch or two, and has to catch himself on the edge of it.

"Uh, anyway. It's really nothing. I just took a little spill off a chair." A chair and three precariously-stacked books. "I'm sure you can see that I'm fine. You're all...very competent here." He gestures dizzily around the room.

A moment later, there's a soft canine whine. An adult mabari is watching him, though he disappears for a moment before returning with an elven woman who is likewise height-challenged. At the moment, she's wearing civilian clothes rather than armor, but the griffon pendant makes her affiliation rather obvious. Pausing to see what has her mabari's attention, she smiles semi-apologetically.

"Garahel's afraid you'll fall and, to be fair, that doesn't seem particularly stable. Do you want assistance?"

Vandelin has very little experience with dogs. He's never set foot in Ferelden, or anywhere else with a culture that venerates them, and he's certainly never seen one in a library before. He meets Garahel's gaze, nonplussed, and furrows his brow as he watches the mabari leave.

He has assumed there must be an owner somewhere nearby, but she's only raised more questions. "No, no, I'm fine, thank you. I'm sorry, the...dog is worried about me?" He glances back down at Garahel. "Not to be ungrateful for the concern, of course, but...how exactly did he inform you of this?"

Edited 2017-07-02 17:06 (UTC)

At that glance to him, Garahel repeats the whine and wags his tail hopefully. Please don't hurt yourself, new elven friend. (Also, pet him.) Inessa smiles and strokes Garahel's head to calm him down or at least make the attempt.

"By his numerous cues, of course...and the fact that he's been just as much of a mother hen at me. Mabari can be quite eloquent, and they can understand us in return." She raises an eyebrow that that impromptu ladder. "I've put in a request for step-ladders, by the way. Their absence is noted, trust me; a Circle library should be better equipped." Her wry smile is brief but sympathetic. How dare books out of their reach? The sheer nonsense of that must be corrected.

He's heard of mabari, though his understanding is limited to 'they're war dogs who can really fuck you up and Fereldans are crazy about them.' The notion that they can understand speech seems far-fetched, and yet...

"Can they really?" Or--well, if it's true, she wouldn't be the one to ask. He turns to Garahel. "Can you?"

Either way, it's somewhat disarming to know he's not the only one who's had trouble with the tall shelves. Not very, because with Vandelin nothing ever really is, but a little. "I do hope they take your advice sooner rather than later, then. If I weren't in the middle of a project, I'd wait until they do, but you know how research goes."

Perking up at being addressed directly, Garahel wags his tail excitedly and lets out a huff. Inessa's trained him against barking in the library, so he knows better than to break that rule. That he speaks to the mabari personally gets a smile from Inessa as well, always glad to see people give Garahel the consideration he deserves.

As he mentions a project, her natural curiosity takes hold and she raises an eyebrow at the possibilities. "Which project would that be? I'm involved in the red lyrium one, as well as researching rifts and the Veil. Or do you mean a project beyond the Inquisition's focus?"

"Well, would you look at that." Vandelin is fascinated and rather delighted by the idea of holding a conversation with a dog, even if there are other things to worry about at the moment. He hasn't meant to give the impression that he's being more useful to the Inquisition than he actually is, and while this is ordinarily a misconception he would encourage, he can't fake it if he's being asked about specifics.

"It's just a personal project, I'm afraid. I was working on it before I left Hasmal, just an examination of the potential applications of spirit erosion to non-sentient beings. It might intersect with research on the Veil, I suppose, now that you mention it..."

Well, that gets her attention. Inessa perks up, raising an eyebrow at the possibilities. "It could, indeed. With the Veil in the overall state that it is, the Fade and the physical world now mingle more than we ever would have thought possible. Such matters might be more relevant than ever." In her experience, no angle is too strange to consider.

"I know Kirkwall's library is still in a state of restoration, but daily visits have a way of ingraining its layout and order. If I see anything relevant, I can pass it on to you." Realizing introductions have been forgotten in favor of her mabari yet again, her smile is a little self-conscious. "I'm Warden Inessa Serra, formerly of Kinloch Hold."

Vandelin isn't usually so rude as to put off introducing himself this long, he swears, even when there are mitigating circumstances like encountering a mabari for the first time. His answering smile manages to be sheepish without crossing the border into shamefaced.

"I'm sorry. I don't know where my manners are. Enchanter Vandelin Elris, of Hasmal." The city now, not the Circle. Never again the Circle, if he can help it--but he's in no hurry to shed the title. It's not quite as impressive a one as hers, though, and he puts his several questions about her research on the back burner. He hadn't known the significance of the griffon pendant.

"I've never had the pleasure of meeting a Warden before. I guess we're all technically in the business of darkspawn-slaying now, but it's good to know the professionals are on hand."

The apology is met with a headshake and a smile. "It's quite alright. All too often, I tend to introduce Garahel before thinking to do so for myself." Because Garahel is a precious busybody that demands attention. The mabari huffs, looking smug.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Enchanter. Truthfully, I'm still rather new to the role, only taking it on after the Circles fell. The others are far more experienced, but I am attempting to close the gap as best I'm able. We can't afford anything less."

Garahel is a dog after Vandelin's own heart, truly. Of course, he still hasn't addressed the problem that had caused all the concern in the first place and gotten off the chair.

"That's the truth. But if you say studying the Veil can do some good--it's never been exactly my field, but I think I could pick it up quickly enough, if you need another mage on the project. I don't know what progress you've already made."

"I've been focused more on the shards embedded in rifters and natives than the tears in the Veil itself, trying to understand their nature and how to shield their owners from--"

And Garahel interrupts with a louder whine because Vandelin, you're making him nervous. "Yes, Garahel, we know. Have you tried energizing the book itself?" If they can use their gifts to create walkways and such, one book should be easier...right? Garahel still looks at them skeptically, still not certain they won't end up hurt through experimentation.

That is not, as a matter of fact, a solution Vandelin has considered yet, and it wouldn't have occurred to him on his own.

"I'm not used to doing that kind of precision work with it," he muses, "but...it's worth a shot. We might just have to be prepared for about five of them to fall on our heads. Think it's a risk we should take?"

Because he totally will. This seems like acceptable collateral damage.

Inessa doesn't seem to share that opinion, gesturing for him to join her level. "Or one of us could make the attempt, while the other shields us with a Barrier spell? I would volunteer, since I have managed before. There's still the risk of a mess, but at least we won't have to add concussions to the aftermath."

Ordinarily, Velanna doesn't pay much attention to others in the library. She's focused on her own thing, and when people talk to her it just annoys her. Of course, when she rounds the corner and sees someone standing on the books she nearly shrieks. As it is there's a stream of elven curses that probably shouldn't be translated as she storms over.

"Get off of those books!" she really doesn't like it when people abuse the books.

The precise translation of the profanity is lost on him, but it's hard not to get the gist. He turns to see where it's coming from, raising his eyebrows with polite surprise and pretending he doesn't notice the way the books shift perilously under his feet when he moves.

"Oh, I will in just a moment. Don't worry. All I need to do is reach this one up here and I'll have everything put back the way I found it. You'll never know anything was out of place at all." He flashes her a bright politician's smile.

So Prompto's never been much of a reader, although occasionally he'll dive into a book, if the mood strikes him. Since coming to Thedas, he's done it much more, what with the lack of television, smart phones, and other electronic entertainment. And it's the best way to get to know about this place that doesn't involve haphazard social interactions and questions. He's dressed like a native now, and he's hidden his mark designating him as an outsider, but he still has a lot to learn.

Currently, he's going to take a look at a book about the Free Marches (since he's kind of living there now) when he notices a bad idea taking shape. Prompto frowns as the guy piles on books on top of a chair and begins to climb. "Uh, buddy. That is so not a good idea what you're doing there. I can try reaching what you're looking for?"

If Vandelin is surprised to be addressed by someone whose presence he wasn't aware of, he doesn't show it. The perfectly understandable and well-meaning criticism, however, only reinforces his determination to make this stupid idea work.

"No," he says pleasantly, "thank you, I've got it. It's steadier than it might look." It is not. "Besides, it's worked before." It hasn't.

The chair wobbles, to Vandelin's internal dismay, but his expression remains impassive as he holds onto the shelf for additional balance.

"I don't think you'd have much luck, either. They've really designed these shelves for the taller humans."

"I'm not that short!" Prompto, buddy, at 5'8", you're barely average for a human male. Though it's true that he wouldn't have much more luck (as much as he doesn't want to admit it), the sight of the chair wobbling still makes Prompto a nervous guy. He sets down his book and hurries over to grab the chair to steady it.

"You do know that it's not supposed to wobble, right?" Because that's a lot of wobbling. "That's the opposite of steady. And I think it's as unsteady as it looks. Is getting that book really worth the inevitable fall?" Because you're definitely gonna fall, man. Please don't make Prompto have to admit first aid.

Vandelin watches Prompto grab onto the chair with a 'pal, you are overreacting embarrassingly' sort of a look. Naturally, should the chair actually fall, he'll be eating crow even harder than he'll be eating the floor, but if he is allowing for this as a possibility, you'd never know it.

"I just think we have very different definitions of the word 'inevitable,'" he says, shrugging as he continues browsing the shelf like time isn't of the essence. Were Prompto not helpfully steadying the chair, he might be trying to hurry things along, but as long as he is volunteering the help, Vandelin supposes he might as well take advantage.

"Really, what would you do in my situation?"

Overreacting won't likely end up with someone having a bruised skull, or worse.

"Uh, yeah, yeah we do." Prompto watches him closely, hoping he's not going to take forever to pick a book. Just because the chair's steady, doesn't mean the book he's standing on are. "If I were in your situation, I'd find a ladder. You know, the things that are meant to be climbed on? Or find a taller person."

Mate did you think no one was watching? Really? Think again, there's an Yngvi loitering for reasons best known only to him because who would think to look for him in a library after all (unless that's the plan but Yngvi rarely gets accused of having those or at least of having any good plans) as he rolls a few parts in the direction of the chair. Small but with a good heft to them seeing as they help to form part of the jaws of one of his many traps that sprout up, mushrooms after a good hard rain.

"Mate," in a tone that doesn't imply any sort of mate-iness at all, not yet, not by a long shot, "spirit of some old geezer'll be on you and snap those twigs you go callin' legs if you even dare."

Vandelin had, in fact, been under the impression that nobody else was lurking around this corner of the library at all, but he might as well have been keeping an eye on Yngvi from the beginning for all the indication of surprise he gives. If he's good at nothing else, he's at least got the kind of stone face that cleans up at games of Wicked Grace.

"I'd like to see one try," he says, hanging onto the bookcase with one hand and rummaging through the top-shelf texts with the other. "I guess it would be easier for him if you keep on throwing things at my stepladder, though." It is a stepladder now; it's been officially upgraded.

Everyone and their Wicked Grace, who's going to play Diamondback with Yngvi's many children? (They're nugs, what difference does it make, he can't take them to Sunday dinner or they'll be the dinner because family isn't understanding when it comes to nugs that apparently aren't for eating.)

"Watched some of them go hammer and tongs at real hardened warriors and it was just lumps of meat left you could sell on a market stall." But they weren't near a market stall and even Yngvi would need to think about it before he tried that one, he'd be selling it to Orzammar first of course. "Do they not teach you anything where you come from? Forget me and the spirit, that chair'll bite you on the arse so you know it's a chair and then its pal the stepladder'll crush you. Happens all the time round here."

"Does it?" Vandelin's tone would be just as well suited to asking if it often rains in the springtime around here. "I'd believe it. Spirits are a bitch when you're not used to them." Is that the book he needs? There it is. But hey, as long as he's up here, he might as well grab a few others; no sense letting the effort go to waste, after all.

The books shift warningly under his feet. He grips harder onto the edge of the shelf, and ignores them.

"Is this what you do around here, then? Hide in dark corners offering sage advice?"

"Don't be rude," as if Yngvi isn't worse but Yngvi learned early enough what to say and what not to say, so some lessons stuck very deep in his mind. "'m Avvar, d'you not have eyes? I know spirits better'n most dwarves." Okay so Yngvi is actually even shorter than your average dwarf, also not really in a position to have his height assessed but he's at least not dressed the way a typical Kirkwall dwarf would be dressed, sounding confident enough that yes indeed he knows a thing or six about Avvar spirit nonsense.

"I'm the only one getting three wages, I can relax and wait for my people to come to me with words of wisdom to repeat back to you, slipping up through the walls where no one else hears."

"No, of course," Vandelin deadpans. "I don't know how I could have missed that. Please, give my regards to your thane."

Vandelin has never met an actual Avvar in person, but should he happen to, he'd be forced to resent them for having the gall to tower over him even more than the average human does. Conversely, however, this will be a perfectly good reason to appreciate his new dwarven acquaintance, once that becomes apparent. It's nice to be taller than someone, for once. Even without standing on a chair.

"Not to sound ungrateful for the words of spirit wisdom, because I really am, but--"

The books give way, sliding all in separate directions before clattering off the chair entirely. Vandelin only manages by sheer dumbass luck to leap free of the mess, and he does not stick the landing.

"She could snap you like a wishbone she could. Honey Badger Hold. You know much about honey badgers?"

Did you know that an Avvar can pick up a dwarf under each arm and toss them into a goat pen without even a hitch in their breathing? Because they can and it's probably really impressive if you're not one of the dwarves in question although it's really rare to ever get to go flying so if you're into that then he could recommend it. Right up until the goats. Literally shit.

Faster than might be thought of for a dwarf since they've got a reputation for being stout somehow as you could just roll them along halls like kegs, as if they're all well-fed deshyrs, Yngvi rolls into action. (Yes, yes, he rolls but combat rolls are totally different, that requires being fast and healthy.) He springs to his feet, hands out because look, he's not going to let you break your spindly elf body in front of him. "I'd give it a six, a generous six, a seven if you had a flashier outfit or if it was a dirty book."

Oh, for fuck’s sake. She needed that book. That one. The one he’s standing on, right there,

“Please, allow me,” There are some advantages to being roughly the size of a small giraffe — Not that she isn’t still a bit out of reach. That’s what her own ill-advised efforts are for, there’s just enough a lip on the lower shelf to stand on, “Which one was it?"

Having a templar roughly twice his height come along and retrieve the book without his having to ask is a perfect solution to Vandelin's problem, which is exactly why it annoys his contrarian little ass so very much. He might be a very little more amenable to the idea if Wren were anything but a templar, but now it's a matter of both pride and spite.

"No need to trouble yourself, Ser. I'd hate to distract you from your duties." Like hell is he about to give her an itemized list of his research material into the bargain. It's neither illegal nor particularly interesting, but it's the principle of the thing.

"I'm sure you must have a patrol to be making, or a troublemaker to be disciplining, or--well, far be it from me to speculate."

Dryly,

"I'd thank you most graciously for a distraction about now,"

Or. You know. That dictionary of Old Tevene verb forms beneath his foot there. Her eyebrows sketch lightly upward, as she prepares to shift her weight far less lightly onto the shelf,

(Mule, meet jackass.)

"We may call the troublemaker whoever designed this bloody wing, I'd no idea ladders were a component of blood magic, but I cannot think why else we should have so few remaining —"

The shelf creaks, wobbles as she pulls herself up.

Vandelin's weight alone hadn't been impinging too much on the shelf's stability, possibly because he weighs about as much as a malnourished nug, but with Wren's agitation of it in addition to the viselike grip he's using to distribute his body mass between shelf and chair, it's all getting a bit hairier. It remains to be seen which one of them will let go before the whole thing topples over, like a very stupid game of bookshelf chicken.

"If ever anyone could figure out how to work blood magic with just a few stepladders, I suppose it would be the mages of Kirkwall." He might admire the hypothetical ingenuity, but honestly, blood magic is such a lazy outlet for academic talent.

He reaches for the sickly green cover of Walking the Fade: Frozen Moments before the templar can get at it. The shelf sways.

Edited 2017-07-06 08:16 (UTC)

"Terribly messy in a library, however —"

She sees he’s got it (Callistus, ugh), pulls back to step down. The shelf splinters beneath. There’s just time enough to affect an expression of deep regret before it’s all happening at once: Books plummet like small missiles, templar plummets like a significantly larger one, and she reaches out on useless instinct for the shelf — only to drag it further in the direction of her fall.

This is not a smart move.

Wren finds ground just in time to brace the toppling thing half-up, but it’s something of an effort and not one which affords an immediate glance to the fate of Vandelin-and-improvised-stepladder.

It affords plenty of time for a string of Orlesian curses, the verb forms for which almost certainly exist in Old Tevene, but almost certainly not in any published guide.

Any one of those heavy books, falling on Vandelin's tiny little birdlike body, could probably fracture bone at the very least. One could thank the Maker's providence that only the lighter ones do, if one were willing to ignore the fact that providence should probably have kept the shelf from collapsing in the first place if it really wanted to look out for them. But then, the Maker has never been said to have much patience for the hubris of His creations--and not even Vandelin, skilled as he is at deflecting blame, can pretend he wasn't at least fifty percent responsible for this entire debacle.

He does not have time to sort out who precisely is at fault for what in the midst of it all. While Wren is dragging the shelf down with her, Vandelin is executing a perfect, unintentional backward swan dive off his chair-and-book contraption, the Tevene dictionary and its companions sliding out from under his feet in such a way as to launch him off the chair and into the neighboring bookcase, which has done nothing to offend anyone, but which happens to have a painfully solid edge for Vandelin to whack his head on.

In the blurry-edged confusion that follows, it occurs to him--the reaction somewhat delayed, but insistent--that the librarians are going to be furious about this mess. He's got to fix it. He can't get away with blaming it all on the templar. She can afford to be banned from the library, probably, because honestly what do the pigs need books for anyway, but he can't.

"I got this," he mumbles, almost-coherently, reaching out to direct whatever magic feels like answering him at the shelf and the fallen books. It's like repairing a wall, or clearing rubble, isn't it? Things will move if you tell them to move, sort of, sometimes. Just charge it with enough energy, and--

--well, the books are doing something, at any rate, but slamming repeatedly into Wren's knees is not what he was going for, and the shelf is not standing itself upright again at all.

Crack goes Vandelin's skull, she can only assume, and magic is dangerous at the best of times. Magic done by someone with a probable head injury —

A surprisingly lengthy tome on snofleurs batters her shins, and thank fuck he hasn't managed to reach the shelf with it. She shoots a look over her shoulder, the strain of motion and exasperation mingled with immediate concern.

(It needn't be said: Not for his sake.)

"Sit down," She hisses, knowing already how useless it is. Her efforts redouble: Best they get this thing up before he tries to help any further, and how is this going to look, Coupe? Braining an idiot in public, demolishing a workspace, great job. Stellar work, "Oh, for fuck's sake!"

A little louder as one manages to clobber another book out of the air, as though two fighting roosters. There's a figure approaching down the aisle at looming pace, a brick of a man in archivist's attire. He doesn't look happy.

Free clinics are great. Free clinics are a boon upon the less fortunate. They're a great place to go looking for the less fortunate, for that matter —

Vandelin’s had an escort to Darktown. It'd be right unkind of her to see he doesn't have one back to the Inquisition. Melys falls into step beside him, slings her arm around his shoulder casual as you can be (it’s a tight grip),

“Get you fixed up, did they?"

This would be one of the unforeseen drawbacks of spending one's formative years cloistered in a tower--unforeseen to Vandelin, anyway, if nobody else. Most people could pinpoint exactly why turning a bunch of sheltered academics loose onto the mean streets of Kirkwall would be a bad idea, but hey, Vandelin's got alienage street cred. From when he was eight. In a completely different city.

If he's afraid, he doesn't make it clear, and his dizzy-slow reaction time could perhaps pass for calm. "Good as new," he says evenly, with only the faintest implied what's it to you?

"That's a relief. Gotta be careful with healers, you know." She shakes her stretch of sleeve. "Ain't careful, they'll charge you an arm and a leg."

A thin elven woman eyes them from the doorway she's been leaning in, and Melys' fingers twitch. A moment's staring contest as they pass — before her eyes find Vandelin's staff, and she retreats back inside. It's enough to catch her own glance to the stick.

"Reckon you'd get by with that cane there, though. Where'd you find one like that?"

Vandelin chuckles obligingly at the bit of physical comedy. There's never a bad time to appreciate a pun, is there? Of course not.

It's all surely not an uncommon sight for their spectator, and he wishes he could get a message to her somehow, it's not what it seems, it's all right, save up your worry for the next time--but he doesn't remember that kind of code. He breaks the woman's gaze before Melys does.

"Oh, this?" He gives the staff a lazy twirl, managing only by long years of muscle memory not to drop it--concussions are stubborn things, healing or no. "You work your way up high enough in the Circle ranks, and they're pretty standard-issue."

I'm no apprentice, if you must take on a mage. It doesn't seem like a moment for subtlety.

Edited 2017-07-08 18:17 (UTC)

It's the tapping of the staff and the unsteady steps of a walk that gets Sam's attention at first, looking up from where he's putting away supplies from the previous patient. For a few moments he watches before heading over, determining that the man probably isn't so steady on his feet.

"Most of the time there is a wait, but it looks like we've thinned out. What seems to be the problem?" he asks, motioning for the elf to head towards the table and keeping close in case he needed assistance getting to it.

"I can wait, if there's...a wait," he says, motioning to the entirely nonexistent queue. Eventually, it registers that there is indeed no excuse for him to procrastinate any further on getting himself examined, and he makes for the indicated table, trying not to look as dizzy or banged-up as he feels.

"All I did was smack my head on the corner of a bookcase. More like a tap. It's practically nothing."

The fact that falling off a makeshift stepladder, smashing one's head on a shelf from the height of said ladder, and having half the heavy contents of the neighboring shelf rain down on top of him for good measure counts as 'practically nothing' might be a further symptom of Vandelin's head injury, but honestly, he'd be arguing the same thing whether he was concussed or not.

To be fair there were other people around, but most were family waiting on a loved one already being looked at, or waiting for a particular healer. No emergencies or anyone waiting on Sam at this moment, so he was all yours, sir.

"Practically nothing, hm?" Not the first time he's heard that before. He already has a feeling it was more then 'a tap', but anything to have the elf talk, listening and watching for just how bad the injury actually was. "How big of a book shelf are you talking about, Mr. -?"

Hermione is used to seeing all manner of things in the library, having spent the majority of her adult life in various libraries frequented by colorful characters. But even none of the first years at Hogwarts had tried to use books as stepping stools before (though that was likely because they'd used poorly-cast levitation charms and would make all sorts of things go awry).

Having glanced up when she'd picked up unusual movement from the corner of her eye, Hermione rises from her table and moves towards the shelf this unfamiliar elf is practically attempting to scale, softly calling, "Excuse me, but that doesn't look overly safe. I can magic a book down for you, if you needed a specific one."

She could also magic him up a bit higher, but he may consider that more of an indignity rather than a helpful suggestion.

Safety is overrated--a lesson Vandelin has thankfully kept to himself and not inflicted on the malleable young minds of the Hasmal Circle, but his restraint in that respect won't do him much good if he does fall off the chair.

Hermione doesn't look much older than his former apprentices, wiser and more practical though she may be, and he gives her a small smile that he wouldn't have given a different would-be helper. "We're all mages here. I think I'll be all right."

Not that book-levitation is in his particular wheelhouse, and it would indeed solve his problem immediately and without risk of bodily harm, but now it's a matter of pride.

Safety is very much not overrated, which is a lesson Hermione's learned after being best friends with two of the biggest troublemakers in the wizarding world. But being friends with them has also given her a great sense of patience and restraint, so she manages to simply frown up at him, more concerned than upset that he's refusing her help.

"Mage or not, you're still subject to gravity and to falling, and likely to bruising and possibly worse." She isn't about to coddle him, though, and so she hesitates for a moment before carefully waving his attention back to the book he's trying to obtain.

"If you insist on doing it that way, though, don't let me distract you. But if you don't mind, I'll breathe a little more easily once you're back on solid ground, and so I'll just stand here in case you need a helping hand."

Oh, well, wasn't that cute? When was the last time Kirk had seen this particular sight? Probably in a movie, if he was honest, and since movies didn't exist here that had been well over a year or more ago. And really, it was like he was asking to fall, or knock a shelf over.

He coughed to get the other's attention, a couple of books already tucked under his arm. "You doing okay there?"

The last person to use the word 'cute' in relation to Vandelin within his earshot suffered mysterious night terrors for a week, but for the moment, he is oblivious in his concentration.

"Never better," he says, pushing his luck even further to stand on tiptoe, and addressing Kirk without turning to look at him. (Turning would be the straw that broke the camel's back, not to mention probably Vandelin's as well, but he's not going to admit it.) "You need anything from this shelf?"

"Isn't that supposed to be my question?" Kirk asked, as he stood just at six foot, reaching higher places wasn't necessarily a problem for him. Certainly he didn't need to go standing on precarious stacks that made his heart jump a little every time they so much as wiggled a fraction. He sincerely doubted that anyone in Thedas knew the proper way to fix a broken neck, after all.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[OPEN] I've got ideas, but it's nothing I picked up at school

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let's destroy a library

shut it dooown

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gAYL5H46QnQ

new official theme song

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on the way back from the clinic

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