faderift | [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.

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

"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."

Edited 2017-09-17 12:05 (UTC)

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.

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.

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."

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."

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."

"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.

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.

[Open] Weary/Hungry/Hunched Over Labwork or Irritable and Lost, Take Your Pick

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject