[Open] Weary/Hungry/Hunched Over Labwork or Irritable and Lost, Take Your Pick

[fireandsmoke]

WHO: The Dragon (Sarkan) & You
WHAT: In which the Dragon is splitting his time amongst the Gallows library, the alchemy labs/herb gardens, and the Darktown Clinic (first time venturing out there!).
WHEN: Throughout August
WHERE: Various locations around the Gallows and Kirkwall
NOTES: Includes references back to his agreement with Kit. Also seeking out the Darktown Clinic to personally introduce himself to Anders.

THE GALLOWS, ALCHEMY LABS

The herb garden and alchemy labs have been seeing a lot of activity lately.

Astute observers and wanderers may have noticed for, oh, the past week or so, plentiful flickering flames and brightly flashing lights emanating from a cracked door into the most isolated vacant lab. Lyrium blue, orange, gold, pale blue, back to gold… for a full day the blue-gold tone swells and ebbs but never extinguishes completely, a sustained and steady light show in a relatively quiet section of the Gallows. Then comes the noises: high-volume chants, eerie, lyrical whispers, an hour-long song in an unrecognizable language that could give even the least magic-sensitive pinpricks to their necks.

And just as suddenly as the preternatural activity began, it quits and silences, reduced to the flicker of unadulterated lamplight deep into the night.

It is after a few hours of relative quiet when a voice snaps curtly to an invisible presence, “I need you to come to the alchemy labs.”

A peer into the lab's cracked door would reveal a tall, youthful man bent over a lab table, turning something about the size of a small coin over and over again absently in his palm, testing its weight and other invisible attributes with the pensiveness of a fine jeweler. It is a highly weary Sarkan, the one called the Dragon, hovering over a tangle of alembics, flasks, flames, and vials, finally finished with his self-imposed quarantine. While he considers and carefully encircles the small object, he shovels a half-consumed hunk of bread slathered in thick, luscious, fatty cheese with a shocking lack of grace for such a refined and well-dressed individual (and even he would be disgusted with himself, if he were not beyond caring at this point in his efforts). He does not appear terribly aware that he is being observed -- if he's being observed -- and actually looks very much like he could use a bigger feast than he's got, followed by a nice glug of fine wine and a soft bed...


HERB GARDENS AND HALLS AROUND THE LABS, OUT AND ABOUT EARLY IN THE MORNING AFTER THE SCENARIO ABOVE

Out and about the Gallows, the Dragon walks around with a palm cupped close to his left ear, a look of concentration etched into his cold face. He doesn't appear to notice or care if he passes anyone; the most they will get is a pause and a quick glance over the shoulder, his cupped left ear tilted in their general direction. It's a strange sight, to be sure, and one probably couldn't help but wonder if he were going a trite deaf in that ear, or if some sort of pesky fly had bitten him in the lobe...


DARKTOWN

Imperiousness has a habit of sticking out like a sore thumb when it’s the slums you’re walking. It does not matter how thickly the Dragon buries his rich clothes under a heavy, drab cloak, he still manages to stand out, whether it is the nature of his strong and aristocratic gait, or his disdainful glances to the puddles of filth muddying his boots, or the gentle clinking of elixir-bottles and magical artifacts in his hip pouch, or just a combination of the entire package. Even the air smells thicker with decay and destitution to his senses. It is something Sarkan did not miss about his youth in the capital city; he much preferred to tuck himself away from prying, fearful, squealing eyes and surround himself with handsome effects, things that weren’t painful to look at.

Darktown definitely isn’t his taste, to say the least. Beleth’s warning to him about a trek to the Clinic absolutely holds true, and he heeded it wisely, keeping an eye and an ear out for any ruffians that dare to obstruct his path. Anders, skilled mage that Sarkan hears he is, is a strange one, choosing the grittiest reaches of the city to set up a respectable magic school. Was the real estate cheaper?

Though the Dragon was very careful and thorough in requesting directions from the Inquisition and a few guards on his way out, he has not yet had a chance to master his sense of direction in this accursed realm. And now he finds himself referencing his parchment of hastily-scrawled instructions with a deep, irritated frown. He made it this far. Did he miss the last turn-off for the Clinic? What a profound waste of time…

"You over there!" Yes, that is an edge of superiority and disdain in his voice. Mostly impatience, sure, but there is a definite dash of ungraciousness in that tone. "I'm looking for the Clinic. The directions I've got are absurdly useless. Which way is it?"


WILDCARD

For any scenario outside the two described above. He is most likely to frequent the libraries. You may also run into him fielding some of his ‘rifter’ magic in quiet, secluded areas or gardens (like creating little mist-sentinels which he can theoretically send out to spy and listen in on other people, like certain Tevinter in the dungeons, but obviously his range will be much poorer than he’s used to). Any other ideas, you’re welcome to just surprise me or hit me up at kriskristofferson.

Comments

[ragweed]

...is that concern in the Dragon's voice, or is Kit losing his damn mind? He regards the sorcerer with a strange expression on his face, like he can't decide whether he should be thankful or offended by the advice. He decides it's better to err on the side of the former; who knows? He might need this guy's help again in the future.

"All right," he says, cutting his eyes uncomfortably to one side, then back again. "Thanks." A pause, before he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "...I'm gonna go now."

taking some liberties with spell effects here for rule of cool

[faithlikeaseed]

"Yes, messere Dragon," Myr affirms. "The same. I managed not to come to grief while putting my glyphs up, as you can see." His smile takes a turn for the wry, there.

Briefly, he considers the situation before him; Sarkan's voice is lower-placed than he'd expect from someone standing, implying the existence of the bench. He reaches to tap it with his staff, nods once, and closes to feel out a seat for himself. Once he's settled, he picks the thread of their conversation back up smoothly: "I could feel the magic, at least, though not the edges of it. It smelled real enough and you had the bees fooled, so I'm disappointed I couldn't see it. Illusion's not something we learn much about in the Circles."

He leans his staff against his shoulder to free both his hands, stretching out his fingers and murmuring under his breath as he works through a spell of his own. It's not a long or a complicated one, and in short order he turns both palms to the ground to release the magic. An eddy of green mist collects around their feet and the legs of the bench, shimmering; at the center, a single lotus-like blossom--not solid enough to fool men nor bees--unfolds its petals of pale viridian light. More important than the spell bloom itself is the restorative effect it's got on a mage's reserves of energy--at least, for mages tied to the Fade. Myr's not so sure whether it'll work for a rifter, but he's interested in finding out.

"That's the best I can do," he remarks of his handiwork, "and the flower's only really a marker for the spell's focal point. Most mages do without it, but I always liked having them." And maybe he ought not to bother now with the extra work now that he can't see it anymore, something in his tone seems to say. But so it goes.

[fireandsmoke]

Sarkan leans his head against his fist, watching and listening to this young woman with a shockingly intent, cold gaze. Though abrupt and unfriendly, to his credit, he is giving this witch a chance and allowing her to speak with the same attention he would give to any other advanced mage.

"Forbidden? Ridiculous. No, it's certainly not forbidden."

Sarkan appears almost offended, even infuriated by the notion, and not at Petra herself. He scowls in an almost self-deprecating sort of way, then backtracks to explain himself in a level, mildly acerbic tone.

"Your country reminds me a little of mine, historically, when witches and wizards were wild fledglings whispering promises of power in dank huts."

He pauses, and it dawns on him that this probably sounds like an insult of her home. He recollects himself and resumes.

"I suppose there isn't much harm or use talking about it now that I've left, but here it is. Kingdoms in the distant past, and even some of the farthest dynasties from Polnya, were known to forbid magic. Fools feared things they couldn't grasp. What they failed to consider was that a wizard who lost the thread of a spell due to inexperience or downright recklessness is far more dangerous than properly allowing us to teach one another and take on apprentices. Human survival would be extinct without a wizard's means for fighting creatures borne of magic, which sharply rose in numbers with the rise of rogue dark spell-casting and the birth of corruption. Furthermore, wizards are a useful tool for monarchs." He allows himself an offhanded shrug, explaining plainly, "The more master court wizards, the better likelihood to win wars. Therefore it is law to train up a wizard at the first sign of magic inclination..." He blanches. "Was law in my realm."

Sarkan slowly shakes his head. This is not exactly the subject he had in mind when a witch expressed interest in talking with him. He had thought they would focus more on their present predicament.

"There are codified rules." He presses his lips together, recalling the exception embodied in a plucky forest witch. "Guidelines is a better term. Well, never mind that, the crux of the matter is that we had books and apprenticeships," and some of those books he brought with him, and rest under lock and key tucked away in a trunk in his rooms, "but truly gifted witches and wizards were rare and there were no schoolhouses."

He clasps his hands on the table and raises his chin, a sound between a hiss and a sigh seething through his teeth. That's enough of this.

"Again, little of this history matters now, unless we wish to wallow in nostalgia. Thedas offers schools, and mages of varying skill are plentiful. Neither of us are going back."

[ipseite]

Sarkan cannot possibly know how immediately and intensely he has won her over - she can barely comprehend it, herself, because it requires acknowledging certain things she has avoided looking full in the face. It requires the acknowledgment of one simple truth, which is that Petrana does not wish to go home, and every kind wish for her to do so has cut deeper each time she hears it. Each time she falls silent, drifts onto another subject, leaves that which she cannot answer unanswered and allowing the one who spoke it to assume what they will -

but he does not speak of returning. He speaks of nostalgia as pointless. He points to what they have now, which she has herself enthused over on more than one occasion. He says: neither of us are going back, brooking no argument and no sentiment on the matter, and she is grateful to him beyond her capacity to understand it, much less to express it.

Of course; she is a lady. She processes all of this quietly, as she takes in all that he says to her, head slightly tilted, features arranged thoughtfully. If she looks up, at the last point, that expression - perhaps tellingly - does not much change. She offers him a very small, measured smile. She says,

"You are quite right,"

and her heart feels lighter for it.

(Might they go back, one day? The rifts are complicated, unknown; she's heard tell of other rifters, who are gone, who left no trace and for whom explanations have not been found. But now she can say: this is, you see, what's in front of me, and it is no good imagining what isn't.)

"You must forgive my curiosity, all the same, to see so many different worlds touch upon this one, and the great variety of how these things are done..." And she is troubled by what Marius might do, in her absence, but that's a story to whisper to herself in the dark, not to a stranger in a library. "It is my husband's intention that king and first sorcerer be the same man. I suppose all I can do from here is wish him well of it."

She plays for a moment with her ring. The diamond upon it glitters, and she does not think even for a moment of its inscription.

"It is very different," after a moment, "that you speak of inclination, and in Thedas of demonstrating power - in Lamorre such things do not come without instruction. Magic is not something inborn to me, it is a talent that I learned much as I learned music, or to draw. And as some are gifted musicians, some are..." Delicately: "Not. I have been lucky to be a quick study. But I suppose it gives me a slightly different perspective. I have wondered if it would be possible to teach the magic that I have learned to one not adept in the Thedosian fashion, but I've not attempted."

[fireandsmoke]

Initially, Sarkan is baffled by Paedic's blunt response, as he felt sure that he still had a turn or two to make. But when Anders steps forward to introduce himself in the flesh, all doubt and befuddlement washes cleanly away. He takes a moment to examine this master-level mage, and for the time being, appears entirely satisfies by what he sees.

"I'm not difficult to miss," he offers dryly by way of greeting, a sarcastic brow floating upward. Unless he means to be missed, of course. He follows Anders's lead and sweeps inside to discover what, for the first time in his 150 years, would constitute a formal(ish) schoolhouse for budding wizards -- mages -- in Thedas. As the teacher-mage indicated, it really is simply a communal learning place, with no classrooms to speak of, no immediately apparent leaders or formality to speak of. What does snag his interest is the distinct lack of library in this simple school. He had expected expansiveness and endless codified rules and stipulations; there is some writing and there are some tomes laying about, but not nearly as many as he thought. Perhaps there were more tucked into the back room, where he could glimpse the herb and vial stores.

Sarkan supposes he could appreciate the merits of simply exchanging and discussing ideas in this collaborative way. It may end up being more useful and conducive to his time and efforts than books alone.

Once he has given the place a cursory glance, he goes ahead and slips off his heavy outer cloak, tossing it carelessly aside on the back of a chair.

"I have to admit," Sarkan says grudgingly, his eyes sweeping their way back over to Anders. "When the Beleth girl told me about a school for mages, this is nearly the last kind of place I expected. I let my preconceived notions get the better of me."

Taking liberties of my own, feel free to correct me! And to run with this lol

[fireandsmoke]

"I'm sure the servants are relieved at the lack of entrails splayed across the threshold. Well done."

Sarkan fixates on the small, single lotus, and he inhales deeply. The shimmering blue-green light dances and flickers, translucent, transient. Though there is no detectible fragrance, he senses deep in his breast that this conjuration is seeping a pleasant warmth. It is a reassuring, almost soothing feeling, and at the very least it functions as a relaxant.

"No, I hadn't come across a Circle magic equivalent in my studies," he says with a snort. "Realistic illusions have abundant practical applications. I'm frankly shocked there isn't one."

He reaches down and tenderly cups the fragile illusion with his slender, vampiric hands, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Hold on," Sarkan instructs brusquely with no explanation. He dimly recognizes he is tearing a page out of his own pupil's slipshod handbook, but rather than simply admire the imperfect, dancing image, he again utters the very same lyrical incantation Myr heard just moments ago -- Vadiya rusha ilikad tuhi...

If Myr allows it, and maintains what he has already cast, he will notice that not only is the Dragon overlaying his own illusions -- vines, petals, extra blooms, herbal scents and freshly-torn greenery -- atop the lotus, but he is attempting to reach out and probe and mingle with the other mage's magic, testing and figuring whether it is possible to mix two different flavors as theirs.

[fireandsmoke]

Sarkan is terrible at reading social cues, so even if Madame de Cedoux were mildly more obvious about her heart bleeding with joy, he might not have noticed. Or if he did, it would certainly baffle him to no ends. He shakes his head with a pensive frown.

"I wouldn't teach unless they already demonstrated ability. I will never yank a peasant off the streets and presume to think they could absorb the intricacies of Agate's Seventh Charm." Whatever that would be. Even if he offers no explanation, it certainly sounds like it has the potential to be a complex working. He arches a sarcastic, derisive brow. "You said anyone can learn in -- where was it? Lamorre? -- but there are too many unknowns to account for. Even a miserable little cantrip using my methods could be enough to sap a witling's soul and run them empty. At that point there would be nothing left to do but give their husk of a body a swift death.

"Besides that..." he adds wryly, pressing his lips together into a twitch of a scowl. "To tell the truth, I've experienced a stupid amount of stifling when I cast even a handful of nothing-spells. The better question to research is whether or not we can infuse or combine Thedosian techniques with our own. At least with the aims of achieving a crushingly average level of functioning."

Amplification attempts can be a natural consequence of achieving dead 'average.' One step at a time.

[fireandsmoke]

The Dragon draws up a chair to his table and thumps heavily into his seat.

"Fine," he concedes, drawing his paltry meal towards him. He contemplates conjuring himself a decent stew, risking the weariness just so he can fill his stomach without needing to go talk with anyone else. Might be worth it to spare himself the tiresome social interaction. "Get out of my sight. I will see you again in a week."

Or not, if Kit does end up galavanting into the sunset and taking on a dangerous journey. Then he will have the added delight and dealing with a magnificently irritated Dragon upon his return.

[ipseite]

"It's hardly a true test of the theory if they demonstrate an ability beforehand," she says, mild as a lamb, "but I've no true intention of doing so. To even attempt such a thing might rather strain tolerance, I fear."

Rifters might not be viewed with the same level of suspicion as they once were - but less isn't none, and Kirkwall is a powder-keg of many kinds. There's no sense in courting that disaster for little more than academic curiosity's sake; she can live with unfulfilled curiosity a sight better than she wishes to toy with the ceasefire between Chantry and local mages. The suggestion that magic might be beyond their control in even more ways - that it could be learned by the unadept -

She has no desire to change the nature of the game while she is still learning its rules.

"I've noticed the same, in any case. Spells for which there are no local equivalent, it's almost as if the air itself fights me to complete them. And they can be done, certainly, but the effort involved is - interesting. Of course, some would present me a challenge regardless, but I feel I've tested it enough with what I know well to be assured it isn't merely my inexperience."

[fireandsmoke]

"So the locals are willing to distrust even a well-mannered, handsome girl? I'm shocked," he drawls caustically. "Village idiots will see villains anywhere. At first I thought they were giving me the usual ignorant wariness, but I swiftly figured out it had more to do with the idea that they think of me as a man-shaped demon spat out by the sky. It's only a matter of time before the bards spin songs about the demons, disease, and famine we shed across the lands."

Sarkan drums his long, pale fingers lightly.

"As for the stifling being solely due to your inexperience -- No, evidently, it's not just you." The Dragon is far from an inexperienced neophyte, for instance. "And it's a problem, an endlessly aggravating one that doesn't have a quick solution."

After all, Sarkan is known to blink away the sleepies even by just dressing himself in the mornings. He shall have to start repeating outfits soon. Heavens! How can he expect to employ his best, strongest anti-corruption spells and strategies if a miserable handful of back-alley tricks is enough to give him a brief fit of wooziness?

"I wonder..." he ponders, allowing the phrase to dangle in the air for a moment. He abruptly changes course after a moment or two. "Do you wish to learn about Circle magic and the four schools? And can you recall how long it's been since you fell through the rift?"

[limier]

Her brows sketch faintly upwards, but she doesn't press it — an irritable memory: another Rifter, months gone —

And then he’s pulled a bloody handkerchief from thin air, like some sleight-of-hand juggler, and they shoot up and down again with such intensity as to imitate a see-saw. It’s really pretty ridiculous.

A beat, Wren recollects herself, folds her hands neatly behind her back; the better that he not observe the particular curl of their knuckles. Hermione has spoken of such things as this, it's not entirely an unknown and yet — quite another thing to see it done. To wonder what else might be summoned with such ease.

(To wonder where else she might need intervene.)

"Your profession," Her words recover their dryness. She withdraws a folded sheet of parchment, does not extend it for him to take. "The Inquisition’s reserves of magebane require replenishment; the recipe takes some time to steep. It also asks a deal of caution,"

Her eyes skim briefly over his dishevelment, exhaustion... the impromptu sandwich.

"Perhaps easier with two pairs of hands, this once." She withdraws the page. "I've an hour or so now that we might begin."

[ipseite]

Discretion being, from time to time, the better part of valor - Petrana lets his derision pass unanswered. In milder form, she might not entirely disagree, but her views on the matter are a touch more sympathetic than his. It is not the most pressing point that they need to discuss, though she supposes it is a matter of adaptation, as she originally proposed.

Well, he has made up his mind on that score. Best to look to progress, and not a lost cause.

"I have been studying the magic of the Circles, yes," she says, agreeably. "Quite a number of books were donated or loaned to me when I required assistance with the local language - I have unfortunately not been so lucky as some to come with letters already comparable, though I've since acquired the trade language and also Tevene. My arrival here is nearly four months past, I believe."

Time enough to have been assured that her womb is empty, as much as she had wished to simply trust Anders' account of the matter. She is acutely aware of how much time has passed since she fell from that rift.

"Myself and one other, on that occasion, a Diwaniya. I am not well-acquainted with the man."

[fireandsmoke]

The Dragon, exhausted as he is, straightens and almost brightens at the request, his brows springing toward his hairline. Magebane? Judging by the name of it, it does not sound like it would make for a pleasant experience for wizards or other magic-users. Wren has successfully re-invigorated him, snagging his attentions in such a manner. Even with his protestations, when given the time and the proper ingredients, he would never turn down an opportunity to brew a complex potion -- particularly something new.

Besides, if this draught required his apt attention for a time, he could always seek out some of his waning vitality elixirs, or if he were desperate, a swig of Lyrium.

The Dragon essentially waves off her concerns, and he returns her dry tone with a short, commanding one. He extends an expectant hand for the folded parchment.

"Before we begin, I'll need to examine recipe. Then we'll want to fetch the materials," a mise-en-place, if you will, if timing is of the essence, "unless you've got them all tucked conveniently in your back pouch. But you're talking storeroom replenishment. I doubt it."

He is intimately aware that elixirs, especially complex brews, require special precision and care, all the way down to the materials used when distilling volatile ingredients. For example, Fire-heart requires 1,000 pounds of gold, a stone cauldron, and near a decade of aging until a mere single bottle is ready for use. "How much do you want, how much time do you mean? I assume the Inquisition will provide appropriate accommodations."

[fireandsmoke]

“Never heard of a Diwaniya.” Though it is interesting that this girl didn’t come through the rift alone, and apparently, with someone she did not know. Sarkan was traveling and slumbering on his own when he fell through the rift, so it is only natural that he appeared by himself.

"So you have at least three months over me," Sarkan thinks aloud dully, a frown blossoming. "And still your workings feel stifled. The books here won’t help with that, even without losing some turn-of-phrases in translation. There’s not even a miserable inkling of a direction to fix that.”

And then there are others, like Beleth, that perceive no issues with how or what or at what strength he is casting. She referenced someone for him to find, a Solas, but God knows where that man has tucked himself away, and she gave him no indication that he was on his way back, either.

That tells him that this is a matter he may need to grapple for full seasons; there is a possibility it could take years to achieve a standard of spell-casting that he is accustomed to. It feels very much like becoming the neophyte again. What a frustrating prospect, but he cannot say he has no puzzles to solve while he is trapped in this foreign land.

After a brief contemplation, he pulls on a leather rope around his neck and glances at the tiny functional hourglass dangling from the end. He abruptly rises to his feet.

“Come with me,” he all but instructs. “There’s something that requires my attentions in the laboratories. If you discovered any affinities for one of the Circle magic schools I want to know.” He scoops up the two books he was working on and tucks them under his arm. From a back, old cataloguing room in the back of the library, a small wisp, contorting itself to the rough equivalence of a soap-bubble, glides its way to Sarkan, nestles on his shoulder, and pulses slightly. He gives no indication that it bothers him, but his brows knit together a little bit before it bursts into a harmless, heatless blue spark.

With that business taken care of, he beckons and bids Madame de Cedoux to follow as he steps around the table and toward the exit.

alchmey labs - hope this isn't too belated?

[youwonscience]

Cosima really had been just passing by - in fact, she was on her way back to her own lab (though she felt calling it that was mainly an exercise in optimism at this point), but the voice catches her attention and she slows her steps.

When she catches sight of the setup, though, she stops and steps in uninvited, jettisoning manners for a seconds. His eating habits aren't shocking -- she's seen worse -- but she's delighted by the setup. "Shit, if I were a chemist I'd be so jealous right now. Who'd you bribe to get this many flasks?"

...it's only kind of a rhetorical question.

NOT AT ALL! So excited to see you again!

[fireandsmoke]

Through his weary fog, it takes Sarkan a moment or two to place the familiar voice. Ah, it's the Cosima woman from the research division, which he has recently taken to splitting his time amongst work for them, the labs, and the Darktown Clinic. Of all the people that might have interrupted his late-night alchemy bender, she is one of the lucky few he minds least. He swallows his food and mops his face with a pocket-kerchief (one he happens to conjure out of thin air with a murmur under his breath) before venturing to answer her.

"Thankfully I didn't have to resort to weaselly bribes. More than half of what you see were flung through the rift with me," he snorts at last. He kicks at a trunk stowed beneath the lab table, and alongside a hollow thud, there's a very light rattle jingling from within. "Remarkably intact, thanks to my half-decent, if rushed, packing job. The rest were gathering dust amongst the cobwebs, and so I helped myself. Doubtful that anyone will miss them."

Rushed. Well, whatever he rushed for, it wasn't a mad dash to fall through a tear in the space-time continuum, that's for certain. The Dragon looks up from his modest plate and peers inscrutably at her through the dark, flickering lamplight and the gentle glow of... various unidentifiable substances.

"You're out wandering late." Implied: Need something?

[limier]

We, so he's agreed to the important piece of the request. It'll do.

The page is passed out at last, and she rattles off a series of brief calculations aloud: Less of it (time, treasure) than might be expected — the ingredients involved are potent. The Spire kept vats of the stuff, but that had been centralized holding for so many different Circles; an expensive undertaking indeed. Even this smaller batch requires a greater quantity of dust than might be casually-requisitioned. There's a reason that the Inquisition's supplies have been allowed to wane.

It's not humanitarian concerns that keep this from being more widely-deployed.

She casts a short look about the room,

"This will do, provided space may be cleared in back. Have you handled lyrium before, Monsieur —?"

It's half a question, half leading. She'd sooner not call him hey you.

[fireandsmoke]

The Dragon's mouth twists and flicks into a frown at the hanging question in the air. For God's sake--

"If Dragon bothers you all so much, then I'll be Sarkan," he spits, more weary than he is completely irritated, the sound of the name practically breathing fire and smoke. Or it could just be the faint acrid stench of the burners -- difficult to say. He adds by way of grumbling afterthought, "It means the same thing!" as he snatches up the parchment and scans the recipe page for himself.

"Why you're asking me about lyrium is beyond me. Anyone with half a functioning mind can tell the difference between lyrium dust and tainted powders," he says curtly, placing the parchment on his table. "That blue is inexpressibly difficult to mis-identify."

Besides, It's not the Lyrium that he feels requires the most care. It's the corruption, the taint, the corruptor agent that he trusts least. But he isn't a fool, he's far from a novice, and he is exceptionally exact when handling dark sorcery; so long as it doesn't drain him more than usual as he works, rest easy, Wren. He will follow the recipe with surgical precision.

He must admit, though, regardless of the ingredients, that it is a highly precise brew, and one that requires a lot of careful handling and attentions. He knows immediately he is in for a long night, but it's nothing that he has not pushed through before. At least it is not the sort of concoction that demands a month, several months, a year of his time.

"We will begin with distillation of the concentration agent. Heatherum and Foxite to start."

Yes, that tone is basically instructing Wren to go and fetch for him while he rearranges his equipment and cleans out the flasks for a fresh poison. She is the one that came to him to brew; did she really think she would get away with making him gather, too?

[youwonscience]

"Oh man, that's so lucky. I've been trying to get my hands on real glassware, but a lot of it is designed to shatter easily, which isn't ideal of my purposes." She shrugs. "Then again, I don't know if anyone can make a real microscope no matter how much glass I get, so..."

Another shrug.

"I couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd get some work done. You having any luck with yours?" It's not that she misses the clear dismissal, exactly. It's that she suspects he can be carefully pushed, a little, and he has an interesting mind. Science is collaborative, and she wants to see how much he can be encouraged to at least discuss his investigation in a setting other than a formally submitted report.

[fireandsmoke]

"I'd better." Obviously. "There's little that is more aggravating than a useless waste of time and excessive effort." But he can't know for certain how this project will pan out until this commission is picked up and used up for a time.

The Dragon opens up his left palm, where the small copper earring rests. It looks innocuous enough, hammered into shape, nothing too flashy or ornate to muck it up. He draws out a small velvet pouch from his pocket and drops it inside, where it settles snuggly with a faint, unnatural hum.

"It's a commission. A personal project," the Dragon explains shortly to ward off any questioning glances. "You'll certainly hear about it if there are applications to rift research. If."

Which implies that he suspects there might be, if all works out as he guesses. The Dragon sets the pouch carefully aside.

"By the way, for your glass," he resumed finally, a weary, mildly impatient, bored note to his tone, "shatter-resistant cantrips will keep them functional through a small beating. I can't help you with a microscope."

Seeing as he's never heard of one, naturally.

FINALLY have some headcanon! and spell interactions!!

[faithlikeaseed]

"Illusions are the province of demons and spirits of the Fade, messere, and they meddle with the mind. We don't study them in the Circles for that reason." It's a testament to Myr's belief, or perhaps his equanimity with life as a Circle mage, that he says that with particular conviction. They might be useful, but there's also a danger in dabbling in them. "It's not an unknown art, though--but you'd be better off talking to an apostate about it."

As if they all to a mage know every art forbidden in the Circles. Oh, well.

He goes still at the injunction to hold on, head canted curiously toward Sarkan as the wizard speaks the illusion spell again. What's he holding on for, he wants to ask--and then the prickling feel of unfamiliar magic winding through his own spellcraft renders the question void. He breathes a hasty word to renew his own spell, reinforcing the shape he's holding in the Fade with an act of will. Keep the channel steady, let the waters of the dreaming world leak across the Veil into the waking one...

For a single shimmering moment, Sarkan's illusions seem to take root in the spellbloom's verdant mist. Branch and bloom, vine and verdure overlay themselves on the mana font--a new patch of garden surrounding the bench and the mages upon it-- And then the Fade snaps back against their efforts, snuffing both spells with a mana-devouring pop of backlash.

"Andraste's tits!" Myr jerks backward in pained surprise, nearly tumbling off the bench before he can catch himself. The ache of the failed spell's quick to settle in between where his eyes had been; he mutters another oath, reaching to rub at the bridge of his nose-- And pausing. "--that almost worked for a second there, didn't it?"

[youwonscience]

"OK, no scientist never hits a dead end, that's a totally unreasonable standard you're holding yourself to," she points out, without fuss. "I mean, I agree it's aggravating, but if you knew how an experiment would turn out for sure you wouldn't have to run an experiment in the first place."

She almost visibly decides not to press about the commission. Instead, she adds, "As far as I know, I can't do cantrips, but I can describe a microscope, if you're interested." She'd be curious in his place but, on the other hand, she doesn't want to actively alienate him by forcing him to endure her company against his will.

On the other other hand, he seems to be at a pausing spot anyway.

[fireandsmoke]

The Dragon splays his palms like a martyr.

"I'm not a stranger to failed experiments," says the Dragon with the exasperated weight of all 150 years of his work. At the very least, though, his failures at 'home' were ones conducted with his full, unbridled abilities, and not through a dense magical fog that hinders his every move.

He cannot help but roll his eyes skyward as Cosima ventures to keep on talking. She sounds suspiciously close to an outright request, but he'd be lying if he insisted he wasn't interested in hearing more about the sort of equipment she uses in her line of work. He is a man who enjoys knowledge for knowledge's sake, after all.

Sarkan pulls an extra chair up to the table and waves her over offhandedly.

"Well, sit, if you're going to chatter at me until the small hours. I won't promise you I'll last until then, but you'll at least have until the wine runs empty. Lirintalem."

So it turns out that he won't outright reject Cosima's company after spending so much time alone, without an opportunity for half-decent company this past month. Even he has some limits to total solitude. In any case, that low incantation manages to conjure two goblets of wine into existence, one for Cosima if she so chooses to partake, and one for himself. At least now he has something to lubricate his parched mouth as he sits and eats, but that's about the last trick he'll allow himself to do for the day.

"Are you talented with diagrams for your microscope, too, or will I have to make do with a description?"

[fireandsmoke]

At the first sign of resistance, Sarkan works hard to pull back on his working, to mute and snuff it out safely before any chance of harm could come to either of them or the garden. The last thing he would want is an uncontrolled thread of a spell swelling and consuming the two of them and a chunk of the courtyard. They would have a time making it out of that muddled maze of magic, and, well, the Inquisition would have quite a cleanup job on their hands.

What results instead is a blinding pop of green light, the stench of smoke and a brush of heat on his nose. He sees spots for a few dizzying moments, and finds he must brace himself against the bench to keep upright. Fortunately, after a few shakes of his head and a number of flinching blinks, the blackout clears away, and all comes into focus again.

The Dragon scowls, displeased, at the results. He is not entirely ready to call it a loss (or a lost cause) yet, but something was amiss with that attempt. He may have to work harder to find magics or persons with more compatible spells in their repertoire.

"Almost isn't success," Sarkan grouches as he rubs at his own eyes. "Any brighter than that, and I might have had an actual need for your navigation runes. What a phenomenally foolish try! I won't be trying that one again." Teaches him a grand lesson about pulling pages from Agniezka's idiot handbook. He shall have to stick to his own cautious methods from here on out, and only try with another mage's full consent and a full explanation of the possible risks. He shrugs it away, banishing all thoughts of the apprentice-girl he left behind.

"In any case, if what you say about demons and illusions is true, then I'd better limit my practice to private arenas. The last thing I want is to encourage the bothersome troubadours to cast rifters as demons to your women and children."

[youwonscience]

One day, his condescension might get to her; it's not today, though, and she's willing to put up with a lot for someone with as interesting a mind as he clearly has buried under the rudeness.

So she settles into the next chair and gamely takes the magically summoned wine. "I can totally sketch you a diagram, as long as you don't mind using the parchment on it. I'm not a microscope maker myself, obviously, but the principle's probably easier to explain with some visual aids."

She has a brief flashback to 7th grade intro biology, and enjoys the brief thought of making him label a blank diagram to test his comprehension of her explanation. (She won't, but it'd be funny.)

"So, to start - do you understand the basic theory of using curved lenses to magnify things? Sorry if that's insulting, but I don't know what common knowledge we're starting out with."