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]

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."