The Dragon (Sarkan) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fireandsmoke) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
faderift2017-08-16 08:40 pm
fireandsmoke) wrote in faderift2017-08-16 08:40 pm
Entry tags:
[Open] Weary/Hungry/Hunched Over Labwork or Irritable and Lost, Take Your Pick
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.
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
no subject
"Mages--wizards and witches are what I'm accustomed to calling us--we are born with a gift for magic," he begins. "Magic is an innate property within the self: you either have it or you do not. There are very few of us, discovered at various times in our lives before we are shipped off for immediate apprenticeship. I was 'found' when I was three. Others, not until adolescence." Like his own apprentice. He shrugs to banish that thought. Not that this information matters much to Anders. He steers himself back on topic. "We fuel our spells from within ourselves, and we are able to see, breathe, and sense when other people are steeped in magic. It's possible for us to affect and manipulate another creature's magic, but only if we can effectively match it or overpower it with our own power and skill."
Sarkan again meets Anders's gaze.
"To make things short, we can manipulate other forces, but power is derived from ourselves. It's not much like drawing energy from a massive force like the Fade, and if I didn't know better at this point, I would certainly distrust a magic power on that scale as malevolent until proven otherwise."
no subject
"There are some parallels between your mages and ours. We're born mages or not, and we begin casting anytime from around four years of age to around sixteen. We can see when other mages are using magic as well. Generally... Generally we cannot manipulate someone else's abilities. There are exceptions, but it's a forbidden magic. Forbidden by the Chantry, that is."
Merrill has made him a little more liberal on the matter of blood magic, but he's not quite ready to say it's safe.
"Let's try something small." Anders pulls on the Fade to heat a bowl of water on the desk. His hands are behind his back so there's no telltale reddish glow; this is to see what Sarkan can detect. "What can you sense from me?"
no subject
He fixes a scrutinizing, intense gaze square on Anders face.
"I know that you're grasping just a thread of magic. Low-effort, warm, not inherently dangerous. Like a cantrip, but lacking any kind of incantation or chant." Which very well breaks all the rules of magic that he knows inside and out from his native Polnya. Magic is always initiated by a chant, though he has come to discover that it is possible to hold on to a spell and continue pouring magic into a working without maintaining a spoken song. Sarkan lazily cups his chin in an upturned palm. "Is that enough to satisfy you?"
no subject
"Yes, and yes." This will be tricky. "There's precious little about blood magic because it's forbidden by everyone in power in any country that isn't the Tevinter Imperium, and it can get you killed by anyone who even remotely suspects you of using it. It is not, in itself, evil. I will also not unilaterally condemn all users of it. However, to learn it, you must make a deal with a demon and that is not something to enter into. I cannot and will not help you learn it."
His voice isn't harsh. In truth, blood magic might be the only way rifter mages can reach the power they had back home, but he will never voice that thought.
"It would be a death sentence for me if I'm tied to it in any way, shape, or form. I need you to understand that. And if you choose to pursue it, I cannot be your teacher with other magic. The risk is not one I'm willing to accept. Do you understand?"