[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

[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]

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.

[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?"

[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]

“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.