[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]

"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.