let the day begin | closed

[aforethought]

WHO: Melys, Luwenna Coupe, Casimir Lyov + Atticus Vedici, Freddie Longlastname, Cosima Niehaus
WHAT: Catchall for closed prompts this month.
WHEN: Waves my hands about.
WHERE: Kirkwall.
NOTES: Will edit as appropriate.

Editing these in as I go. HMU on plurk if you want one. ♥

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[aestivation]

Vedici's been easy enough to navigate this far; a welcome alternative to what he's heard of the other. Too much shouting. It would be a distraction, all that anger in a room.

"Yes, I've seen the bolts." Desk to floor, an unnecessary addition upon what otherwise seems a reasonable enough plan, "I'll request you visit the smith. The library won't serve for this."

"I'm going to review the runework." He lays out the cuffs carefully, gestures with a lens to collect it. "Would you prefer to observe?"

That's habit, too. He doesn't owe the man any allegiance — has been told not to follow any orders issued — but the templars have always wanted to know what he's doing, and it's been valuable to discuss theory with Myr. Perhaps it would better prepare him.

[minrathousian]

The anger is still in the room. It is simply quieter; a snake hidden in the grass rather than a barking dog.

"Would you prefer to observe?"

His lip twitches, the barest beginning of a disgusted curl checked before it can fully manifest itself. Atticus chooses to rise to his feet and replace his spectacles on the bridge of his nose, approaching the table. He elects to stand as far away from Casimir as he reasonably can while also being in a position to observe his work.

With anyone else, this is where the mind games, the subtle manipulations would begin. With Casimir, there are no strings to pluck, no sensitivities to prod at seeking bruises or old scars--but the serene countenance aside, his mind is no tabula rasa. Atticus does not have hubris enough to believe himself above the dangerous pitfalls laid out before him here.

So he opts for simplicity, and requests only, "Show me," with the barest gesture of his left hand.

[aestivation]

It's an appreciable position, to the extent that it's possible to appreciate: close enough to observe without crowding Casimir's hands, risking damage of an instrument.

He sets the lens into his eye, near enough monocle. A vial unstoppers, sharps the air with a caustic tang. He twists the point of a miniature hook within it, carefully traces the interior of one —

"The agent reacts to lyrium," Blue light dances in miniature, carved place: the shape not dissimilar from neutralizing glyphs. "A modified version of that used in etching. The acid is weaker, it will not damage the form. However, if there's existing degradation in the structure, raw lyrium will be exposed, inducing caustic action."

As it is now, that chemical smell blooming into ozone. The shine flickers, winks out.

"Your skin contact will have been minimal. Toxicity is negligible." Even so, "Until repairs can be made, avoid wounds upon your wrists."

More than one already tries.

[minrathousian]

The threat of lyrium poisoning more aggravates than it frightens, and Atticus cannot disguise his slight scoff of incredulity; avoid wounds upon his wrists. Of course. "That may be beyond my ability to control," he replies curtly, turning an incising look upon the shackles. Nevertheless, the process had been a fascinating one to witness. The magisters of the Imperium did not rely on Tranquil mages to provide them with enchantments; their arrangements with the thaigs of Kal-Sharok and Orzammar provided a more than adequate supply to support the Tevinter Circles' needs.

Reining in his interest, he gives Casimir a cutting look. "How long until the repairs can be made?"

[aestivation]

Casimir meets his eyes steadily, emptily. If Atticus' sharp manner has made any great impression, it's difficult to say —

"However soon your presence may be arranged. I've free hours in the evenings." More of them, if he puts aside sleep. "Perhaps this coming week."

More templars about by then. The tools fold away, the lens tucks into a case.

"We will discuss your assistance with a project at that time. It was suggested that you would find it," A pause. He seems to wonder a moment, at the shape of the word: "Interesting."

He offers the cuffs out once more, towards Atticus' wrists.

[minrathousian]

Atticus's upper lip curls a fraction when Casimir extends the shackles out to him, but he dutifully steps forward and extends his wrists so that they may be refastened into place. He exhales with visible displeasure as the magic-muting runes take effect, dulling the edges of his senses in an altogether unpleasant way.

"'Interesting,'" he repeats, cuts his eyes towards Casimir, and gives him an unfriendly ghost of a smile. "I highly doubt it."

[aestivation]

He doesn't shrug, but the pasted-on smile at last slips from his lips, into boneless neutrality.

"You get used to that."

The guard's exit is unhurried, despite the best shepherding attempts of the guard. He shakes his head at the retreating back, shoots Atticus a look.

"Spooky fucks, all of you."