[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]

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?

[limier]

"Anyone with half a mind left to them," Firmly (Sarkan, so that's settled), she moves forward, arm outstretched not to bar his way — but to imply rather distantly that it could. "Has handled lyrium dust carefully, before or after its processing. You would do well to avoid direct contact."

Theres no way of knowing who instructed him upon this subject, how similar his own world's agents, what books he's found to substitute for sound advice. Her mouth thins,

"Press the foxite before you dice it,"

A last little tug of war, before she retreats to begin fetching supplies.

I can play this out or handwave the rest, whatever you decide <3 I know this is getting old!

[fireandsmoke]

"Certainly," Sarkan merely snorts and conjures a pair of gloves out of thin air with a murmured incantation. Yes, press it first to bruise the oils, loosen the tough fibers, release and thoroughly work its potency. He knows what he is doing. Or at least, he is doing his damnedest to convey the sort of confidence-bordering-on-arrogance that he's known for. And he will be absolutely content to prove his superior competence to Wren by demonstrating how methodically he works, referencing all appropriate herbology tomes if he must.

He is also becoming abundantly aware that he will need to spare some time for rest soon while the initial concentration agent distills, and that he will need to rely on the sunrise to warm his face enough to wake him. No drawn curtains for him this night.

"And when you're back, don't forget to give me some idea what volume I'm brewing."

And so when Wren returns, she will discover several cleared laboratory tables, a pair of cutting boards and knives and several large mortars and pestles along with a tangle of tubes and flasks. In the corner by the window he has tossed his cloak atop a mound of massive cushions fashioned into a makeshift resting space for his use once there is a break in their work.

no worries! ❤ right back at you though, since i've been on hiatus a while

[limier]

She lingers a moment to eye the conjured gloves, but it's his cushions that fix her attention upon returning (boxed materials in arms).

"You've been sleeping here," Observation, more than question. Not so unusual, with work yet to be done — Maker, were they yet in Skyhold, this would have been prime real estate. But they're not in Skyhold, and they don't lack for space.

Perhaps she wouldn't be so concerned of this, were he not a mage. Three years and certain instincts yet engage, however irrationally.