[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

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.

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.

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?"

[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."

at long last, I'm so sorry

[faithlikeaseed]

He has to laugh at Sarkan's pessimistic assessment of things, a nearly helpless sound without an ounce of malice in it. It doesn't last long; the backlash headache sees to that, and he breathes out sharply as the pain flares up. Maybe the spell he's got for concussions would help... Though before he can do that he owes Sarkan an explanation for his mirth; the wizard's prickly enough as it is without Myr's offending him on top of it.

"'Almosts' pave the way to success, messere--at least in my experience," he says. "We've learned one way not to do it--and that our magic can interact at all, which I wasn't sure it would. So that's something."

Pausing, he covers his face with a hand and mutters his way through the words of one of his few healing spells--cringes a little when it completes and draws on the remaining dregs of his mana--and heaves a relieved sigh as some of the pain ebbs. Not the total analgesia he'd been hoping for but better than nothing at all. "--Glad you won't be needing my glyphs, though. You're not otherwise hurt, are you?" There's an earnest concern in his voice; spell failure's a nasty thing.

"That--yes, that would be wise. I'd advise it, though from what I've heard it may be too late to avoid rifters being named demons. You did all emerge from the Fade, after all." He's almost apologetic about that. "Which reminds me--d'you run into them in your dreams now that you're here? Demons, that is?"

[fireandsmoke]

"Well, my head appears to remain firmly attached to my neck. My pride has a gaping hole in it, though."

Then the Dragon falls silent for a time, after Myr's last question regarding dreams and demons. He first caught wind about the importance of dreams from a dwarf that gave him the impression of either severe drunkenness or some sort of derangement. Yngvi was his name, if Sarkan can recall it correctly. At that time, he did not understand at all what the dwarf was going on about. Now that he has read and studied a fair bit about Thedosian magic and the Fade, he has started to pay much closer attention to his nightly dreams, whenever he has an occasion to remember and think over them. He even keeps a neat, hyper-organized journal at his bedside so that he may record exactly what occurs each night and not lose the memory to oblivion.

"Only occasionally, so far," he admits. "It's a new type of intrusion than I'm used to, and I've scarcely scratched the surface. I just record what I remember each morning."

[faithlikeaseed]

Myr swallows his own smile at the mention of wounded pride; that's something he well understands, though in this case it seems better to let it go unremarked upon. Instead, reaching for the very last bit of mana he's got, he recasts the spellbloom around them. He likely shouldn't be wringing himself dry this way, but it'll return more than he put into it and take the edge off the continued backlash hangover besides.

"Only occasionally, so far."

Well. That's both a relief and a disappointment. "Then you know by now not to treat with them, at least," he says, unable to keep the worry out of his tone. "I was wondering if they'd even try for rifters, or if--" you'd even register to them because do you even have souls? is not a charitable or wise thing to say, and Myr trails off, temporarily stymied. "--they'd leave you alone.

"But I s'pose anything that dreams can lure them in. What--ah, hm." He breathes out a huff of laughter at himself, winces again. "If this is too personal, tell me to shove off, but what have your dreams been like since coming here, messere? The outlines of them, anyway--any worse or better than what you're used to?"

[fireandsmoke]

"You really do have an excessive preoccupation with dreams here, don't you," Sarkan all but grumbles, almost marveling in tone. He does not miss the hesitation in Myr's tone, the hitch where his sentence trails off, but rather than remark on it he casts the mage a searching, frowning sort of look. Of course, being blind has its advantages; Myr is unlikely to be phased by a look he cannot see.

Sarkan throws his arms up in a half-shrug. "I don't know. Worse, marginally so, I suppose. Who wouldn't be unsettled -- that's putting it lightly -- by falling through an otherworldly tear in their realm? Of course it will manifest in dreams, too."

[faithlikeaseed]

Of course, and Myr's got to nod at the wisdom of that. His response is a little chagrined: "Right. So there wouldn't be any sorting out whether it's demons or stress causing them to worsen." ...Though now that he thinks of it, why'd he even assume a rifter mage would dream in the first place, if wherever Sarkan's from hasn't got a Fade to begin with? He lapses silent to think about that for half a minute--then gives himself an abrupt shake to clear the maundering.

"Not so much of an excessive preoccupation, for a mage--the Fade's the realm of dreams and the wellspring of magic alike." Most forms of magic, anyway. It didn't bear to talk about the kind that didn't draw on the Fade where anyone might hear and suspect. "We pay the price for the gift of it in the attentions of demons when we sleep. I--imagine it doesn't work that way, where you're from."

There's a note of awe and a little jealousy behind those words. What would that be like? How much easier would it be, to fall asleep every night without the fear of possession?

[fireandsmoke]

"Not even remotely similar," Sarkan begins. He clasps his hands together in his lap.

"Dreams are nothing, just products of the imagination." His tone is void of derision; it is simply a fact of the reality he once knew. "Of course there are all sorts of stories trumpeted by the troubadours about fanciful witches that divine the future through their dreams, but it's all nonsense. Anyone can claim after the fact that they dreamed up an event before it happened. There's no evidence, and they don't have to prove it. It doesn't help that most of these snake-oil peddlers are predisposed with silver tongues, and speak in vague terms so anything can be interpreted as an accurate prediction. Simple-minded, ignorant idiots fall for it every time."

Myr may be able to detect the smallest of chuckles.

"You can imagine the challenge in wrapping my head around true demon dreams."

[faithlikeaseed]

There's an answering chuckle from Myr; amusement's an easier, safer emotion to indulge than jealousy. However different dreams might be between their worlds--however much safer it sounds for a dream to simply be the product of a slumbering mind--there's some things that remain the same. "Seems it's true everywhere people conjure what they want most out of what they hear," he remarks through a smile.

It's not a long-lived expression, fading away like the sun behind a cloud at the mention of demon dreams. "Maker's breath, yes. It's been too long for me to remember what dreaming without them was like--but I can imagine it's strange. Especially if you haven't got anything like them in your waking world, either, to compare with. Or--do you?" He turns his face curiously toward the wizard.

[fireandsmoke]

"There is always evil and corruption out there. Thedas isn't profoundly different from Polnya," Sarkan says curtly. "Why else do you think it's critical that I cast to my full capabilities, without wearying after the slightest trick? I have a whole host of spells that would be profoundly useful against Blight."

[faithlikeaseed]

Myr takes the implied rebuke equitably enough, voicing a brief huff of laughter. He spends a moment, a word, an idle gesture of one hand to renew the spellbloom before responding. "Well enough, and I'm sure I'm not overreaching to say we're grateful for all the help we can get. Is there anything I can do in turn to help you get back on your feet? Magically speaking, that is."

It's not a completely selfless offer, even if his first instinct is to help someone in need of it--he's not about to pass up an opportunity for more exposure to rifter magic.

[fireandsmoke]

Sarkan is intimately familiar with mutually beneficial arrangements such as the one Myr proposes, even if the blind mage doesn't voice his hidden intentions and curiosities outright. The Dragon had his own share of arrangements where he stood to gain even while he served and guarded the peasant folk of his provincial valley. He is fully capable of reading between the lines and seeing this disarmingly friendly man's fascination with foreign worlds and foreign magicks.

It's a motive and an intellectual curiosity he can appreciate. They may as well mutually benefit from their studies, and besides, such a fascination is far preferable to anyone wanting to study him for the sake of his possible demonhood.

"I'm working with a mage called Anders to learn your techniques." It is plain what he means by your -- Thedosian mages, magical techniques distinct from his own lyrical incantations and innate power and intricate, precise rules. "We can talk about trying different combinations than this ill-conceived attempt at his school. But it will be a patently better plan to start again with more familiar and compatible spells than demonic illusions.

[faithlikeaseed]

Anders. At that name, Myr looks briefly stricken, his usual smile vanishing like a popped bubble. "Ah," he manages. And: "That's--right, yes. I'd heard he was a teacher. You and he would discuss it, you mean?" Because he's mortally certain he would not be welcome at that school, and would not want to be there besides. It wouldn't go well.

He's quick enough to recover his poise with a practical problem to fix his attention on, though. "Yes--something that's closer to our schools of magic might be more tractable than illusions. At the very least I'd be able to hazard guesses on how they might work together before we even try casting them."

[fireandsmoke]

At that stricken flash, Sarkan lays an intense, discerning gaze on Myr. From Anders's last crystal-sent message, the Dragon had somewhat of an inkling that the teacher-mage was a rather, ah, divisive figure. But of course, he has little grasp of the extent of the matter yet. He will be certain to discover why eventually, sooner rather than later if he can swing it. For now he won't press it.

"Discuss and practice, and I'll see where it takes me," he confirms, and leaves it at that. "In the meanwhile, do me the honor of keeping this utter failure quiet. I don't think it'll do me or you any good to let word of rifter illusions spin around the rumor mills."

[faithlikeaseed]

The other mage's presence in the Inquisition is something Myr had been trying to ignore--he can't yet rationalize it--while focusing on his own work. But it's getting harder and harder to do when nearly everyone he's spoken to seems to have met the man, and what's worse more, has a neutral or positive opinion on him. It's not so far a jump from that to assume Sarkan already knows what there is to be known about Anders--

Although, perhaps not. So, definitely sooner. "I won't go noising it about, messere," he replies. "Though if anything does come of our combined work, I'd definitely like to share it--as much as you'll permit, anyway."

He pauses a moment, considering his words carefully, before adding: "And in turn, I'd advise caution about who you tell you're working with Anders, at least within Kirkwall. He dealt the city a serious wound six years ago, one her citizens still aren't done mourning."

[fireandsmoke]

"Yes, I figured out something to that extent about him," the Dragon says curtly. He is no stranger to being demonized in tall tales; from what he knows about Anders, he is a man with decent intentions who has possibly needed to take drastic measures in the past. Naturally, those drastic measures were not well-received by the public. That is as far as Sarkan's assumptions have gone thus far.

"It certainly explains why he chose the slums as a prime location for his Clinic," he appends in a half-murmur. "But don't bother advising me of caution. Unless my mind were deteriorating, I don't tend to blabber away at just any glassy-eyed peasant I pass on the road."

Myr is a fellow magic-user; that is why he is privy to more conversation than the average idiot.

[faithlikeaseed]

There's a part of Myr that wants desperately to push the issue--wants, in truth, to shout about Anders' crimes from the rooftops until someone's forced to take notice and do something, be it the guard or someone else. (Especially now that he knows where the man's is hiding; he'd heard the clinic mentioned now and again but no one said where it might be--)

He breathes out a sigh, letting the thought go with it. The situation the Inquisition's found itself in is precarious enough without further endangering its mission over a matter of retribution. "And were your mind deteriorating that's the last thing I'd worry about, truly," he replies with wan humor. "I'd be more put out at the loss of a fellow mage and any research we might get into."

Having run its course at last, the spellbloom quietly dissolves from around their feet. Myr turns his head as if looking down at where it was, counting off time in his head. ...They've been talking a while, haven't they. "Speaking of, I'd not keep you from your work if you have something more pressing to be doing. Much as I could sit and ask you questions about your magic until the sun's gone down." And then some. There's always more to learn.