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

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[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.

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Although Sina has wrought substantial havoc on the chantry garden, she still also oversees the herb garden in the Gallows and maintains its health, which usually requires her to be among the first working on it in the early morning.
It's not that uncommon for people to move through it around this time, either to help out or just pass through, but periodically she has to correct them, and it appears today is one of those days.
First she clears her throat, then calls a polite "excuse me", then pads around to stand in front of him, pressing her hands onto her hips in exasperation.
"Please stop standing on the embrium," she sighs, and gestures a foot away, where there's a non-flowered path.

That seems to snap Sarkan out of his reverie, and he glances at the girl through a knitted brow.

"What does it matter? It plainly isn't a rare plant--"

Then something catches his eye. A big something. An impossibly large, sickly green something, not unlike the anchor shard in his palm, protruding across her entire chest.

That earns something more than a glance. He affixes both of his probing dark eyes on the girl, a grim and cold understanding slowly dawning on him. Rather than bark at her further as he is inclined to do, he steps out of the flowers and onto a sparse dirt path without further complaint.

"Embrium, you said," Sarkan lowers his cupped palm and drops a shining copper-toned earring into a pocket hidden in the folds of his cloak. He thinks aloud, reciting what he recalls from a recent book, murmuring to himself, "Certainly common, healing and invigoration properties." He raises his voice, adding in a barely-reassuring, offhanded tone, "Never you mind it. I'll use what I crushed, if that eases your soul."

Sina's not oblivious, and she sees the path of the man's gaze. She almost follows it with her own, but instead continues to watch him patiently, sighing out through her nose and nodding in thanks when he steps away from the flowers.
"You can help me pick them," she suggests, her tone weary. She knows why he censored himself. A glance downward at the embrium, and Sina bites her lip with a shrug of one shoulder. "They're not crushed too badly. It's fine."

"Surely they've suffered worse in a hailstorm."

Hmph. Fine. He can pick a few flowers. Perhaps he can try mixing up his own dreamed-up concoction of a vitality elixir, using a mix of Embrium and his own silken incantations to imbue the distillation.

"Well, do you want me to take them or not?" he prompts impatiently, crouching by the flowerbeds and poising to dig up his handiwork. He has firmly and promptly avoided looking at the girl's obvious 'mark,' surmising full well that her condition was likely a painful and wholly damning one. Cosima had told him that an anchor-shard in the palm was enough to eventually inflict disease and death; one in the heart could only compound and hasten those ills.

"I can leave the roots behind or pull them. I don't know if you want them cut or pulled, or if the root is especially valuable in distillation."

Sina sighs, clearly enjoying this about as much as he is. She holds her hands out and shakes her head when Sarkan offers to dig them up, insisting she didn't mean it. "I was being hasty," she replies, "they'll be fine. It's fine. Please just don't stand on them anymore." It's possible some of the stress from the chantry garden...forest is spilling over into her interactions here, but it's also possible she's just preoccupied.

Sarkan throws his arms up, rising back to his full lofty height and dusting off the bottom of his cloak. What a frustrating, contrary girl she is. Dying girl.

"I was thoroughly absorbed." His hand hovers near his concealed pocket. "From now onward, I'll take greater pains to trod gingerly around the greenery at the expense of my twisted ankles."

He regards the winding path through the garden with a pinch to the bridge of his nose.

"Since you clearly have a vested interest in the herbs and flowers, you would know the answer to this. Say I need these for a brew. Are they for public use?" He adds caustically, because he just can't help himself, "Or do I risk the puling of a wrathful gardener-girl if, Heaven forbid, I clip the wrong plant?"

Creators, what a baby.
Sina watches him with dull patience, standing still and waiting for the tantrum to blow out before she speaks again.
"They're free for public use," she says flatly.

"You summoned me?"

The dwarf leaning in in the doorway doesn't look particularly subservient or willing to hop to to meet the Dragon's demands, likely because he'd rather be anywhere else at this exact moment. However, at least in comparison to their previous meeting, he is no longer limping about on an injured leg. That injury has, apparently, been seen to.

He squints at whatever small, golden trinket it is that the Dragon is toying with, his annoyance easing some from his features. Instead, it would be totally reasonable to read a bit of excitement into his expression.

"Ancestors," he mumbles, awed, "you actually did it?"

There's a strange new addition to the herb garden and Myr isn't sure what to make of it.

It smells like a rose bush. He was convinced on that evidence alone that someone had gone and dropped one in the middle of Sina's carefully tended plots--except there wasn't anything else (no crushed green smell of broken stems, upturned dirt, disturbed herbs) to indicate how it got there. Nor does it precisely sound like a rosebush when the breeze kicks up; and though it smells like it's in full bloom, there's not nearly so many bees around it as he'd expect. It's almost as if they've given on on getting any nectar from it.

The clincher comes when he--carefully, with every due respect for the herbs--creeps close enough to reach out and gingerly touch it, and finds nothing whatsoever to meet his questing hand but the faintest prickle of magic. He can't know that he's shoulder-deep in someone's lovingly crafted illusion as he does this, but anyone sighted might get some enjoyment from the spectacle of him being half-devoured by the ephemeral bush with an expression of sincere puzzlement on his face.

Edited 2017-08-18 20:59 (UTC)

"Good," he says curtly, letting her flat tone roll right off of him. Sarkan really has no intention of getting himself chucked in the dungeons for pretty theft.

Without further ado, and their undeniably awkward little entanglement finished, he turns his back on Sina. The less he acknowledges her severe condition, the less he must confront it (and the reality that his own shard may slowly consume him one day. At least here, in Thedas, there is no need to immediately burn shard-bearers like the corrupted sods covered in sickly green and black gangrene in his own realm. Luckily for one such as himself, too. Or unluckily, if it did no more than mark them for prolonged suffering and death without hope of reversal.

Sarkan frowns, shrugging away his grim thoughts, and lazily waves a palm past his left ear yet again and chants a foreign string of syllables: "Niemalum." He snaps his fingers a couple of times in front of his ear, then draws the earring back out of his pocket and presses it to his lobe. After a moment's thought, an idea occurs to him.

"Here's something useful you can do," he asserts without bothering to look at her again. "Go and tend to the flowers on the far end of the garden. Make some noise over there, some loud, some quiet."

Edited 2017-08-18 15:29 (UTC)

Sina is more than happy to let the conversation be over, and is on her way back in the direction of the patch a few feet away where she was working before, and then Sarkan speaks again. She turns with an incredulous, wide-eyed smile, resisting the powerful urge to say 'oh, can I?'
Instead, since he isn't looking at her, Sina just shakes her head and continues away. Shem'len. Sometimes she forgets they're not all like Araceli.

"You really need to stop doubting me from here on out," the Dragon says testily with a barely-repressed sigh. "I will tell you outright when something is impossible."

He sets whatever bites of food he has on a silver charger, and slides it aside. He pinches the copper-toned circlet betwixt his index finger and thumb and carefully, almost lovingly brings it close to his lips as if to give it a kiss, or perhaps even to swallow it hole. Instead, softly, lyrically, he chants an impossible string of unrecognizable syllables, and as his voice reaches a swelling crescendo, the object glows a pale, cool blue. Something akin to passion dances in his cool, dark eyes, and there's a glimpse of someone who becomes almost soft and handsome whilst he practices his craft.

In another flicker, both the light and softness dissolve. The Dragon squints at his handiwork critically, holding it up and out to the candlelight with a dawning frown.

"I did something," he admits wearily. "And it works as I expected it would."

The Dragon drops the trinket--an earring, modestly-sized, nothing that will attract the attentions of greedy bandits--on the lab table and slides it toward Kit, turning his attentions instead to an inkwell, quill, and splayed-open journal. The journal is absolutely peppered with calculations, ingredients, precise proportions and specific instructions, as well as a table with several listed attempts scratched out harshly in fits of frustration. At the bottom he adds another note, and a few foreign syllables that Kit may be able to pick out as the incantation he just sang.

"Well? Take it."

Edited 2017-08-18 23:18 (UTC)

Kit probably would think the Dragon was a bit of a looker, if his personality weren't so sodding abrasive. ...Still, the bastard came through with his request, and so in that spirit, Kit decides to let his comment slide.

It's less easy to maintain his chill in the face of obvious spell casting, especially knowing that he's going to have to stick that enchanted piece of metal in his ear now. Spooked, he takes an involuntary step back and waits until the glow of the spell fades before he forces himself to inch back into the workspace.

He picks up the earring and examines it; more subtle than something stuck right in his ear, he supposes. He looks back to the Dragon, who is already nose-deep back in his notes and research.

"Hey," he says again. A pause. Then, with grudging sincerity: "Thanks for this."

Myr is not alone in the herb garden.

Perhaps that fact in and of itself isn't unusual; there are plenty of mages that call the Gallows their home, whether temporary or permanent residents. There are plenty others who tend to and enjoy the herb garden, as well. But if the unsighted could have seen even a glance at the stone bench to his back, he would have spotted a lofty, thin, sunlessly pale figure glued to a seat in front of that intangible rose bush.

That very same figure is gently swaying and undulating his fingers as if conducting an invisible orchestra. His brow knots firmly in concentration, though he allows his attentions to wander and focus on Myr in both incredulity and annoyance.

"Vadiya rusha ilikad tuhi," he hums crisply, roundly enunciating each letter. At last, with more delay than that wizard would have wanted, the bush oh-so-perfectly--too perfectly--bends and gives way beneath Myr, a delayed (mimicked) response to invisible touch. The man on the bench releases a frustrated, supremely irritated huff, and abruptly releases the stream of magic. The rose bush, along with its dewy, intoxicating perfume, dissolves at once.

Even a blind man should be able to surmise there is a connection between the man murmuring and grumbling behind him and the sweet-smelling illusion he chose to examine.

Edited 2017-08-19 03:12 (UTC)

"Don't thank me yet," says the Dragon tersely. "What I've given you is imperfect and impermanent, just as requested. Ordinarily, perfection requires months or years of work and ingredients I no longer have."

He does not look up from his writing as he grabs another hunk of peasant bread and helps himself. A smooth gesture once he's finished, and he wipes his mouth with a conjured handkerchief. He washes it down with a glug from a plain silver cup before resuming his instructions.

"Its use is straightforward enough that a simpleton could manage it. An earring is less apt to get lost no matter what you're doing, but fleshy contact with the ear lobe is technically all that's required to get it activated. Only wear it when you need it, or you will drain it too quickly. I'll guess a charge will last a week, at best, before I'll need to infuse it again." The Dragon completes his writing with a loud scritch, scritch and replaces the quill in the inkwell. He braces himself against the lab table to keep his posture aloft and regards Kit with critical, steely eyes.

"Don't lose it, because there won't be a second. No excuses--unless you manage to get your entire ear shorn off," he adds caustically. "Not that I'll make a second regardless."

Petrana had not long entertained the notion of visiting the Darktown clinic - there are people who ought to walk unescorted in Darktown, and she is perfectly aware that she is absolutely not one of them - but rather read his reply to her note and thought, well, the library, then. It isn't her particular wish, in fairness, to on first introduction delve immediately into elaborate displays of magic. The library seems a fine enough place to begin, and she has little trouble seeking him out.

"Mssr Sarkan?" having politely made enough sound in her approach not to startle him too violently from his reading. She is a small thing, standing only five foot flat, modestly dressed bar the jewelry that sits out of place in plainness, pretty but unremarkable at a glance if not for the shard embedded firmly in her left hand. She offers a smile in muted warmth-- "I am Madame de Cedoux. We corresponded briefly. Is this a suitable time for you to speak?"

It would take a more engrossing puzzle than an illusory rosebush to distract Myr so completely as to not notice the muttering going on behind him...though it is engaging enough for him not to trouble himself over that muttering right up until his new object of fascination vanishes completely. He draws his hand back and straightens up, his perplexity deepening as he rubs the feel of foreign magic from his fingertips with his thumb. Illusions aren't a common magic on Thedas--outside the Fade, where they're the definite province of spirits and demons--so he's a little slow to make the immediate connection.

But when it does click-- He turns in Sarkan's direction, considering the last words of the spell he caught and comparing them to his store of remembered voices. It wasn't in Trade, but he might recognize that one... And a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he does.

Well, he'd been meaning to meet the fellow in person sometime.

Carefully, using his staff to feel out his way, Myr makes his way over to the wizard's bench. "Was that yours?" he inquires, once he's close enough they can talk in conversational tones.

And then he deliberately takes one step closer to the bench than he needs to be before grounding his staff and winding his hands around it, his face turned politely toward the other man.

"Don't lose it, because there won't be a second. No excuses--unless you manage to get your entire ear shorn off. Not that I'll make a second regardless."

Kit exhales shortly and gives his head the tiniest of 'why do I even bother' shakes, pocketing the ring. He'll need to find a way to jab it through his ear at some stage, but that won't be the worst discomfort he's ever experienced. Certainly it'll be less unpleasant than trying to have a conversation with this chump.

"Sakroka," he says, and one gets the impression he's using the word very sarcastically, "next time, just do us all a favour and say, 'you're welcome,' and leave the rest of your commentary on the inside."

He turns to leave, muttering, "prick," as he crosses the threshold to the corridor.

"Wait," the Dragon calls to Kit before he is too far out the door. He is not finished with him; not yet.

"Test it for a time first. You'll have to return to me within a week in case you would like improvements," he warns. "If you can help it, don't rely on it yet. Just because I'm familiar with its function doesn't mean I trust that you'll be a natural and take off soaring. I've seen how magic makes you shrink away, and you told me as much yourself. Know it intimately before you rush headlong on a journey across the map. Understood?"

The Dragon straightens when the stranger takes a turn in his direction. That is when he notices the blindfold.

Aha. This man's strange behavior suddenly makes sense to him. He recalls a conversation he had a week, perhaps several weeks ago, with a mage who intended to plant navigational runes around the Gallows. He, himself, stumbled upon something he assumed was his, a shining, pulsing emblem carved entirely of magic. He respected the blind man's wishes and either avoided them completely or took great care not to interfere with the invisible threads of power holding them in place.

The Dragon regards the smiling, polite mage with a mix of frustration (at his own barriers to casting perfect spells) and guardedness. He is hard-pressed to trust kindliness at face value like some naive toddler. He has had far too many bad experiences with the darker side of human nature to let himself go that quickly.

"Myrobolan, was it?" He is just as abrupt and short in the flesh as he was through the sending crystal. In any case, though he doesn't make any move to slide over, there is plenty of room on the bench for the blind mage to join him on the bench, if Myr so wishes. "I would say plainly, but you don't have any navigation runes to guide you around intangible objects, so I shall let it slide. Yes, that was my illusion."

Pretty to look at. Imperfect. Harmless. He glowers silently at the vacant area where his roses once 'grew.'

Edited 2017-08-19 22:19 (UTC)

There have been all manner of strange gossip regarding the Gallows' newest apothecary, and sooner or later it would have required a cursory investigation. Better to kill two birds with one stone: What she needs today isn't something she's entirely comfortable going to Beleth for.

As though this conversation will be any easier for the presence a foreign mage.

Wren raps twice upon the door (the rough sound of metal upon stone; there's been little time today, she's come still armored) before nudging it open more fully. For someone so finely-dressed, he looks more or less like shit.

She's one to talk — if her pupils have returned to a normal size, the bruises along her jaw will be slower to fade.

"The Dragon, yes?" Brusquely enough. Her hands fold behind her back as she steps inside. "Have you a moment?"

It's clear from the way she plants herself in the doorframe that she doesn't expect the answer to be no.

It's definitely a grey and dismal day in Darktown, a little more dingy than average. That hasn't slowed down Anders, or the amount of chaos that poured through his door, unfortunately. He's stepped outside for a few moments to rest, leaning against the patched and reinforced wall that makes up his Clinic, when he hears someone asking after the Clinic.

A young voice answers, Paedic, one of the boys that runs messages for Caveborn Trueborn, one of the two gangs that have decided it's better for Anders to be using the building healing them rather than keep fighting over it as it falls into more decay.

"You're there," says Paedic as Anders pushes himself up off the wall and heads forward. "Serah?" gets added belatedly, and Anders can't help but smile faintly before he gets his expression neutral again and looks over the man currently looking down on the boy.

"You'll find that Darktown has a transience to it that makes most directions quickly useless. But learning the feel of the place isn't too difficult," Anders says before waving the boy off. The man's voice sounds familiar, though it takes him a moment.

"Sarkan, is it? I'm Anders. Welcome to my Clinic." His robes are fairly plain when he's down here, browns and blues, but there's golden embroidery on the chest and gold accents that speak to the vanity of the wearer. He likes pretty things. As does, it appears, the man before him. It's nice to have commonality there, though it gives him a guess as to why the man doesn't sound entirely pleased.

"Would you like to come inside?" The building itself has three rooms, as much as they can be called rooms with the dividers partially rebuilt. The first holds tables and chairs, with scattered slates and chalk and people learning. The second has more chairs along with a few fires equipped with various cooking means: spitroast, cookpots, kettles, while the third is cots and desks, cabinets and bottles and herbs and potions. There are people throughout, there is no real privacy to be found except in a small back closet space, but Anders holds the door open to the Clinic anyway.

The Dragon, though aware of a woman's approach, gives a slight start at the smoky sound of his formal name, which, thus far, has not heard much use in Thedas. He is currently thigh-deep in a gold-tooled tome focused exclusively on Creation magic. A hefty beginner's book, The Four Schools: A Treatise by First Enchanter Josephus lay marked and cast aside for the moment. He snaps his eyes up to meet her full in the face.

The girl -- she looks young and slight, he notices, without any telltale aging in the lines around her eyes like himself and other older wizards bear like a badge -- did not give him any prior warning of her imminent arrival. But if he were to be frank with himself, he didn't tell her to send notice. He had just assumed wrongly that she would prefer to practice at the Clinic despite the seedy nature of its environs.

Looking at her critically now, he realizes this to be an idiotic supposition. She is a fine, delicate-looking thing, looking more like a gossiping courtier (God, he hoped she would prove otherwise, they were an insufferable type, and though she is handsome to his tastes, he far preferred the chin-up, forthright, unflinching sort of girl to lying manipulators) than a fierce combat witch. And even with magic on her side, if her own works function just as shabbily and with just as much difficulty as his does, she would likely find herself in a quick jam without a detail of guards at her side.

"You're here, aren't you?" the Dragon replies shortly. He closes marks his place in the book and gestures briskly (nearly elegantly, with how long and lean his hands and limbs are) to a seat at his table. "So we'll speak. You didn't come to me at the Clinic, which means you're not looking to practice. What do you want?"

He is not terribly friendly, but, then, she read the note he sent her back - she had not been anticipating friendliness. She isn't sure that this is even going to be particularly productive, that he'll be at all interested in the conversations she wishes to have...but she will have made the effort, at least, and the effort costs her little. If he doesn't wish it, they will part and she thinks it needn't be contentiously.

She says, as she sits, "To speak," very mildly, not without warmth. She's friendly, if reserved in the way of one who grew up with the vipers and learned to survive.

How to thrive.

After a moment, considering her words - "It interests me, to know more of how magic is practised and taught in other worlds. Where I am from - Lamorre, or I suppose I might say Sulleciel - it is, for the most part, not taught at all. I learned on horseback and in war-camps, from knowledge passed mouth to ear and so on. It had been my particular project to commit such things to paper - we hoped very much to rebuild the libraries of old, from even that small seed. To understand better how it is managed elsewhere, not forbidden..."

An elegant shrug. Plainer clothing does little to disguise her for what she is: molded for rule. She was born to be a wife, and little more, but her husband has expected her to become king and not courtier, and of all the challenges she's been forced to rise to, this one has suited her best.

"I don't believe in overlooking any opportunity to consider a new angle."

The Dragon scowls into his modest feast, and makes a show of taking his time finishing that very last bite and elegantly mopping his face with a conjured kerchief before affording this unexpected 'guest' a look of dire scrutiny. It is instances like this that he sorely wished to find himself another isolated tower from which to observe the city. At least from a tower, he could exert control over whether or not he allowed the doors to unlock for unwanted guests (even if he just used a traditional lock and key). Here, he just didn't have the energy to spare to brace the doors with his magic. How annoying!

"This late?" Somewhat incredulous.

Though frankly, even on a well-rested evening, he would feel inconvenienced by the interruption. He shoots his time-keeper, a trickling hourglass, a dour, almost plaintive look. He pushes his silver charger aside and braces himself against the lab table, regarding the intruder impatiently.

"Fine, let's get this done," in a sighing tone that implies this better be eminently urgent. Fire-heart-is-running-unrestrained-throughout-Kirkwall sort of urgent. This woman certainly did not strike him as a typical fool, so there may be substance behind her sudden appearance (were those bruises at her jaw? Yes, with a closer peer, he recognizes that it's not a trick of the shadows, and his frown deepens)... but he cannot help but have his doubts, considering he is a relative newcomer to the Inquisition and to the Gallows. "If you've bothered to come at this asinine hour, then you want something. What is it?"

Edited 2017-08-20 03:00 (UTC)

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Page 1 of 4

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

Herb Gardens

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[Backdated to early August] The Gallows, Alchemy Labs

Wildcard: A strange rose

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the library.

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alchemy labs!

Darktown

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