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She keeps a brisk pace about her work.
That's nothing worthy of notice, but soon enough it grows — strange. Taut. The tension about the Gallows frays at sharp ends; if restlessness isn't foreign to her step, if a certain intensity of regard may be expected, the smiles certainly can't.
1. Days pass, it escalates. From an easy manner to pacing, to eyes shot wide. Shadows collect, and her breathing grows ragged. Inattention sees old injuries remind, unchecked (and how many times a day must one really run about the ramparts?)
2. There's a tune carried on hoarse tongue, whenever she seems alone. There's a stack of papers on her desk, littered with an array of marks, corrections, minutiae. Perhaps your report's among these, or that library book you need's been defaced by a familiar hand, or,
3. Why is she looking for you, exactly?
When fever comes, it only urges her on: To be aware of everything that's happening, of everyone.
Edited 2018-01-18 08:04 (UTC)
It's a right strange mood lately, and Melys intends to take advantage.
Maybe it's ugly weather that's got everyone so riled — you don't know stir-crazy until you spend a few months iced into your own damn fort — or maybe it's just Rifters being themselves. No more skin off her back than it ever is: Wear a good glove, and keep yourself mean, and it matters less what you get mistaken for.
But the Gallows is distracted enough to up and buzz, so when she starts swiping, she doesn't much bother with discretion. A few rolls here, a pot of ink there. It's never anything worth fencing, but neither's any of it free.
1. Could be that you caught her at it, could be it's even your things she's nicked.
2. Else you might find her later on, dumped flat on her back by a furious, screaming griffin; some kind of strange harness (a pack?) all tangled about its head. The fall sounds a dull thud, she doesn't move.
For the best. It's tossing around talons like scythes.
Edited 2018-01-18 08:03 (UTC)
Finch Wicker has ruined his entire life.
At least he's pretty sure. If he doesn't know any of the afflicted, he's no less on edge for it; wrapped in a tangle of thought that refuses to come unwound.
There's nothing to do, but to do the best he can. Running home with his tail between his legs, that's not an option. Not for his pride, and not for Fern. It doesn't — shouldn't — matter what else they are. What else she is.
She's still family.
Family that he's doing his level best to avoid, and being assigned to servant work has helped with that. So he runs messages, and sweeps floors, and scrubs walls, and it could be a lot worse. It's good experience, it's good pay.
1. But he'll still look glum as can be to knock upon your door, or bum a pull from your flask.
2. Or instead, to stare over the gardens, and: "Can I ask you a question?"
Edited 2018-01-18 08:06 (UTC)
A back of the hand to feel her forehead, and Teren's talons grip Wren's shoulders to spin her and march her back the way she came, toward the Templar dormitories and to her stupid bed. It wast just happenstance that they ran into each other, but she knew immediately by the sight of the prattling woman that something was amiss, and the fever confirms it.
"You've caught what the bloody Rifters have," she mutters, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so thin, "and if I catch it too because you're out acting a fool, you'll be sorry."
"You've caught what the bloody Rifters have," she mutters, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so thin, "and if I catch it too because you're out acting a fool, you'll be sorry."
Another new servant is here to teach him the ropes, at least as well as she's learned them. Fifi is no stranger to young men, least of all the lovelorn type, and though patient with him for much of their work, she seems to know exactly when to wave a hand in front of his face and suggest he get back to work.
"You followed a girl here," she says at last one morning, her accent thick Orlesian, "she is not reacting well?" It's conversation for conversation's sake. Maybe the poor little bastard just needs to let it out.
"You followed a girl here," she says at last one morning, her accent thick Orlesian, "she is not reacting well?" It's conversation for conversation's sake. Maybe the poor little bastard just needs to let it out.
If Casimir's noticed anything odd, he gives little sign.
That's to be expected. Routine continues until disrupted by acts of man or Maker, and there's been nothing yet so dire. He re-catalogues the research archives, draws smoke from those pages he's able, sets aside those he cannot (bound for a place of their own, as distasteful, useful things —)
He takes meals alone, when possible. Avoids large gatherings, crowds, the places he's come to expect his presence will disconcert. But alone and calm amid the growing chaos, it's not so difficult to find him now,
1. Hunched over a workbench, pulling delicate threads of lyrium across etched stone. What sort is that, again?
2. At the chess set in the library, mulling between moves. He seems to be moving both sides.
3. Waiting for escort into the city. Congratulations, you drew the short straw on today's shift.
( Gwenaëlle settles into the seat opposite him, regarding the chess board with some interest. She doesn't immediately speak, contemplating how to approach the subject—what she's noticed. How to address what she's noticed without, per se, addressing what she's noticed, and more to the point, how.
Based on her extremely limited knowledge of the Tranquil, he seems like her best bet because he seems the least likely to take much of an interest in what her interest, precisely, might be. After a short time, without raising her eyes from observing his chess match against himself; )
May I interrupt? Briefly.
Based on her extremely limited knowledge of the Tranquil, he seems like her best bet because he seems the least likely to take much of an interest in what her interest, precisely, might be. After a short time, without raising her eyes from observing his chess match against himself; )
May I interrupt? Briefly.
It is Fern's door that he knocks on, whether he realizes it or not. When she answers it's a few moments later, the distracted look on her face quickly gives way to wide-eyed surprised. Then, pressing her lips into a thin line, she looks over her shoulder once as though to verify that her roommate is still out, then looks uncertainly back to her... to Finch.
"...I thought you might've gone home," she ventures a little sullenly. He must've done a very good job of avoiding her, after all that.
"...I thought you might've gone home," she ventures a little sullenly. He must've done a very good job of avoiding her, after all that.
"...Wren!" Inessa stands up abruptly from her office desk, eyes widening as she takes in the woman's state. As she maneuvers around the desk to approach her, Garahel gets up from his spot on the floor and pads over to offer Wren some support, whining softly.
As she reaches up to feel Wren's skin, her lips form a thin line. Just as she thought, the woman is burning up. "We're going to the infirmary. You're in no fit state to be walking around." Gaharel grunts in agreement, looking up at their taller friend with soulful eyes.
As she reaches up to feel Wren's skin, her lips form a thin line. Just as she thought, the woman is burning up. "We're going to the infirmary. You're in no fit state to be walking around." Gaharel grunts in agreement, looking up at their taller friend with soulful eyes.
It isn't as though they'd been on the best of terms, ever since the incident with Cade. But Wren had always struck him as an implacable stone in the midst of chaos. Not changing, ever stalwart, and the sight of her wide-eyed and smiling as she passes by brings a cold chill down his spine.
"Ser Coupe--" A hand on her arm, to give pause. "Are you feeling quite well?"
"Ser Coupe--" A hand on her arm, to give pause. "Are you feeling quite well?"
Or it could be lunch has arrived, Myr guiltily picking up the threads of ritual severed by his own anger at the matter of the phylactery. It’s as good an excuse as any to look in on her—to check whether whatever had afflicted Simon and Cade might be playing merry havoc with all the Inquisition’s templars.
He leans his staff against his shoulder, knocks on the frame of the open door with the hand not holding the basket. “Set Coupe?” Pitcher a little louder than his wont to be heard over the humming. “Have you had lunch yet?”
He leans his staff against his shoulder, knocks on the frame of the open door with the hand not holding the basket. “Set Coupe?” Pitcher a little louder than his wont to be heard over the humming. “Have you had lunch yet?”
For all they'd have gone quite a bit hungrier in Hasmal without the Formari and their unique talents, Vandelin still doesn't really know more than the bare details of what they do. Neither does he care in more than a vague, academically-curious sense, but it's something for his eyes to focus on when he needs it, and that's what matters.
"I meant to ask," he says eventually, "how you've been." In...whatever way that now matters to Casimir. It seems the sort of question one is always told not to ask of the Tranquil, but how one would rearrange one's speech to express interest in someone's well-being in any other way, he still doesn't know.
He means, at least, to make an effort. It wouldn't do to appear as irrationally resentful as he feels.
"I meant to ask," he says eventually, "how you've been." In...whatever way that now matters to Casimir. It seems the sort of question one is always told not to ask of the Tranquil, but how one would rearrange one's speech to express interest in someone's well-being in any other way, he still doesn't know.
He means, at least, to make an effort. It wouldn't do to appear as irrationally resentful as he feels.
As he enters, a low murmuring abruptly stops.
"Warden," Distracted, hoarse. She doesn’t look up from the map staked onto the desk, just looms with pen and ink in hand, marking down some sort of notation, addition — and is she supposed to be writing on this? It can’t have been cheap. "What is it?"
"Warden," Distracted, hoarse. She doesn’t look up from the map staked onto the desk, just looms with pen and ink in hand, marking down some sort of notation, addition — and is she supposed to be writing on this? It can’t have been cheap. "What is it?"
Of course, [It carries the stilted distance of something copied rote. He pushes a castle to check before glancing up — straightening his posture to unhurried attention.] Lady Vauquelin?
[ There are only so many Orlesians about the Gallows; fewer, who have sounded quite so agitated upon the crystals. It's not a relief, per se, that she isn't now.
But it certainly makes this easier; faking a smile can be foregone. ]
[ There are only so many Orlesians about the Gallows; fewer, who have sounded quite so agitated upon the crystals. It's not a relief, per se, that she isn't now.
But it certainly makes this easier; faking a smile can be foregone. ]
Yes.
I understand that you work closely beneath our research division head.
( Not agitated, but—distracted, maybe, or something harder to pin down. She's comfortable enough meeting his gaze when he does look up, but her fingers tap restlessly until she flattens her hands, deliberate and precise, and her jaw works for a moment before she says anything else.
It's a courtesy to be so careful, as well as probably sensible under the circumstances of this possibly not being very sensible, but it doesn't come particularly naturally to her. In that, there's a short, sharp stab of envy for him that's better left unexamined. )
I understand that you work closely beneath our research division head.
( Not agitated, but—distracted, maybe, or something harder to pin down. She's comfortable enough meeting his gaze when he does look up, but her fingers tap restlessly until she flattens her hands, deliberate and precise, and her jaw works for a moment before she says anything else.
It's a courtesy to be so careful, as well as probably sensible under the circumstances of this possibly not being very sensible, but it doesn't come particularly naturally to her. In that, there's a short, sharp stab of envy for him that's better left unexamined. )
Here is what they know: something is odd. There is an illness, or something, and several of them are acting odd. He sees no pattern—he has scoffed at the suggestion of an illness, elves do not get ill, and he will excuse himself to Ser Coupe, always reasonable, rock-steady, and they will talk, and develop a plan to handle this, and then he can return to his work, and to his lady, and—
He knocks on her door, rap-rap-rap, and because it is unlocked, he walks in, making sure it closes behind him. She is singing, and he listens for as long as he has before it cuts off, jumping in with his own news.
“She thinks I am ill. You need to help me dissuade her.”
He is energetic, yes, but his office was just recently destroyed and he was putting it in order, and his enthusiasm is the mark of a new husband—
He knocks on her door, rap-rap-rap, and because it is unlocked, he walks in, making sure it closes behind him. She is singing, and he listens for as long as he has before it cuts off, jumping in with his own news.
“She thinks I am ill. You need to help me dissuade her.”
He is energetic, yes, but his office was just recently destroyed and he was putting it in order, and his enthusiasm is the mark of a new husband—
That's more civil than the usual. What it might mean, he's not sure, but he'll take it.
"Benedict," Anders starts, before seeing what she's doing and frowning. Far be it from him to know what a Templar sees important, but the map looks a little expensive. Maybe there's something urgent going on and that's the reason for her distraction. "He's still got guards when Atticus doesn't, and I'd like him to have mage guards rather than Templars. There are spells that can be learned to negate magic, and I'm quite certain he can't be a blood mage since he's still alive."
There's a short pause, and then, because he can't help himself: "...do you mean to be marking the map?" She probably does. It's probably a very stupid question. But stupid questions are a part of his life.
"Benedict," Anders starts, before seeing what she's doing and frowning. Far be it from him to know what a Templar sees important, but the map looks a little expensive. Maybe there's something urgent going on and that's the reason for her distraction. "He's still got guards when Atticus doesn't, and I'd like him to have mage guards rather than Templars. There are spells that can be learned to negate magic, and I'm quite certain he can't be a blood mage since he's still alive."
There's a short pause, and then, because he can't help himself: "...do you mean to be marking the map?" She probably does. It's probably a very stupid question. But stupid questions are a part of his life.
Edited 2018-01-21 10:44 (UTC)
No duty is a short straw, scrublord, all duties are important and necessary.
Herian and Casimir have not interacted extensively in person, largely because Herian only interacts extensively with people through work and necessity, or because they specifically seek her out. Social butterflies might gift her with their presence (that is not sarcasm, she is sincerely fond and grateful to Cosima and Saoirse and Araceli in different ways) but she could not be counted amongst their number.
"Casimir," she says, and her voice is steady in ways that she does not feel. Some call Tranquil unsettling, but for her there is the wonder if he has made the right choice, and if it is a choice she should echo. Perhaps that is the root of what was unsettling, for some, for those whose discomfort did not come from the opposite end of the spectrum. "My apologies for keeping you waiting. How do you fare, today?"
Herian and Casimir have not interacted extensively in person, largely because Herian only interacts extensively with people through work and necessity, or because they specifically seek her out. Social butterflies might gift her with their presence (that is not sarcasm, she is sincerely fond and grateful to Cosima and Saoirse and Araceli in different ways) but she could not be counted amongst their number.
"Casimir," she says, and her voice is steady in ways that she does not feel. Some call Tranquil unsettling, but for her there is the wonder if he has made the right choice, and if it is a choice she should echo. Perhaps that is the root of what was unsettling, for some, for those whose discomfort did not come from the opposite end of the spectrum. "My apologies for keeping you waiting. How do you fare, today?"
It's easy to fall into old habits, even inside a new routine. Easier, for having another elf about, and this one near enough Robin's age — kinder for it —
"We're engaged," Maybe he shouldn't be talking about this, the way that Fern doesn't seem to. Maybe that's just what they're doing now: Not talking, acting like it's nothing for anyone to know. It feels wrong, but so does the alternative. "I am, at least."
It's got to be alright, here and now. Fifi probably doesn't even know Fern, why would she? The whole point of taking work indoors was to give her some space.
"It's not like I can just up and run off —" His voice cracks a little, and shame-faced, he turns to tug a sheet into place. It's not the sort of thing he wants to be angry about. And then what? Plant turnips this year, beets next year? "— It doesn't matter."
But he's still talking. Because of course he is.
"She’s got one of those things in her hands, a shard.” She's got far more than that, but that’s really not his to share. "We can’t go home anyway."
"We're engaged," Maybe he shouldn't be talking about this, the way that Fern doesn't seem to. Maybe that's just what they're doing now: Not talking, acting like it's nothing for anyone to know. It feels wrong, but so does the alternative. "I am, at least."
It's got to be alright, here and now. Fifi probably doesn't even know Fern, why would she? The whole point of taking work indoors was to give her some space.
"It's not like I can just up and run off —" His voice cracks a little, and shame-faced, he turns to tug a sheet into place. It's not the sort of thing he wants to be angry about. And then what? Plant turnips this year, beets next year? "— It doesn't matter."
But he's still talking. Because of course he is.
"She’s got one of those things in her hands, a shard.” She's got far more than that, but that’s really not his to share. "We can’t go home anyway."
He hadn't meant to be here. Might not be, if anyone had bothered to tell him who sleeps where — but they haven't, and he's here, and his gaze drops to the floor as he sucks in a breath.
And then what?
Finch twists the handles of the linen basket between his palms, and sets it down.
"I'm staying," He says, at last, and it's only saying it now that he knows how long it's really been decided for. What's there to go home to? "Can I come in? I've got,"
He nudges the basket with his foot.
"They're hangings. For the walls."
Some rich, shem, castle thing.
And then what?
Finch twists the handles of the linen basket between his palms, and sets it down.
"I'm staying," He says, at last, and it's only saying it now that he knows how long it's really been decided for. What's there to go home to? "Can I come in? I've got,"
He nudges the basket with his foot.
"They're hangings. For the walls."
Some rich, shem, castle thing.
At first Fifi is surprised, then confused. They're engaged? He's engaged?
"Then she has called off the engagement?" she asks, holding the opposite end of the sheet so he can tug it with more accuracy, "quel dommage." There's sympathy there, but also a certain level of world-weary acceptance. He's young, he'll find another.
"It is good of you to stay nearby. Perhaps she is simply upset, because of the shard?"
"Then she has called off the engagement?" she asks, holding the opposite end of the sheet so he can tug it with more accuracy, "quel dommage." There's sympathy there, but also a certain level of world-weary acceptance. He's young, he'll find another.
"It is good of you to stay nearby. Perhaps she is simply upset, because of the shard?"
Messere Thranduil, yes. [ a strange title set against the name, he's listened enough to news from the city to know. but if there's anything more appropriate, he hasn't divined it, and it seems altogether unlikely the point of this. he watches her hands with distant attention, drawn for the motion. ] Did you wish to speak with him?
[ that's unlikely, too. she's a crystal, same as any of them, if for all that he's not certain he's heard the two of them speak together — ]
[ that's unlikely, too. she's a crystal, same as any of them, if for all that he's not certain he's heard the two of them speak together — ]
( No, she thinks, he will tell her again that she's overreacting to nothing and it's just—
Gwenaëlle presses her lips together on any and all of that, on the hundred and seven (roughly) different things that her face wants to do. Nevermind any of it, she came here to purpose. )
I don't know if you're aware that people have been behaving strangely recently. Moreso, ( dryly, ) than usual. Messere Thranduil ( SURE ) is of the opinion that he's immune to everything and has an answer for everything else, which is not an opinion I personally share.
( Men are men are fucking men, no matter their species. Time and again this truism rears its irritating, egotistical head. )
I'd simply like to ask that if you observe any erratic behaviour—unusual for him, suggestive of ill-health or...poor judgment. If you observe that, I'd like you to report it to the healers.
Gwenaëlle presses her lips together on any and all of that, on the hundred and seven (roughly) different things that her face wants to do. Nevermind any of it, she came here to purpose. )
I don't know if you're aware that people have been behaving strangely recently. Moreso, ( dryly, ) than usual. Messere Thranduil ( SURE ) is of the opinion that he's immune to everything and has an answer for everything else, which is not an opinion I personally share.
( Men are men are fucking men, no matter their species. Time and again this truism rears its irritating, egotistical head. )
I'd simply like to ask that if you observe any erratic behaviour—unusual for him, suggestive of ill-health or...poor judgment. If you observe that, I'd like you to report it to the healers.
"That's kind of you."
He doesn't look up.
It's not due Vandelin so much as the work between his hands: An unfamiliar pattern, a delicate moment. The pick pulls free, the vial's stoppered, and he turns before it's quite set aside; regards him from a stare grown still and shiny as glass. He hasn't given a true answer, but then, it wasn't a true question.
(Casuistry, that, and there's a joke in there he's forgotten how to tell.)
"How have you found the Inquisition?"
I thought you were dead. He's certain he's remarked as much, during one of those rare moments the elf slips in and out of picture, uncharacteristically quiet. Perhaps that's what kept him from settling into view, out from a fog of absence that began some years ago. The name, the face, the words recede until needed; a ghost recalled its attic, a skeleton in the wardrobe.
We all thought you were dead, But that isn't true either, is it? Jokes elude, but the cloth between his hands, wrapped over twin, hollow dark — that's always been easy to find.
He doesn't look up.
It's not due Vandelin so much as the work between his hands: An unfamiliar pattern, a delicate moment. The pick pulls free, the vial's stoppered, and he turns before it's quite set aside; regards him from a stare grown still and shiny as glass. He hasn't given a true answer, but then, it wasn't a true question.
(Casuistry, that, and there's a joke in there he's forgotten how to tell.)
"How have you found the Inquisition?"
I thought you were dead. He's certain he's remarked as much, during one of those rare moments the elf slips in and out of picture, uncharacteristically quiet. Perhaps that's what kept him from settling into view, out from a fog of absence that began some years ago. The name, the face, the words recede until needed; a ghost recalled its attic, a skeleton in the wardrobe.
We all thought you were dead, But that isn't true either, is it? Jokes elude, but the cloth between his hands, wrapped over twin, hollow dark — that's always been easy to find.
Edited 2018-01-23 08:33 (UTC)
It sounds like the kind of sarcasm Van wouldn't have known the Tranquil capable of--he might have pondered that further, might have debated within himself if it really was, were it not for that far-too-even stare. That seems to answer without words the question of whether Casimir still has the capacity for jokes or banter.
Ironic, he thinks, with just enough good sense to hold back a snort of laughter, that a question like that is more relevant now than it ever was back in Hasmal. He would have had to ask Myr then, who could certainly have waxed lengthily poetic about Casimir's sense of humor or lack thereof, whichever it was. There must have been something Van was never privy to. (There was a lot that Van was never privy to.)
"I loved him, and I betrayed his trust, and he suffered for it--"
It can't have been the betrayal alone that would prompt Myr to dive headlong into the abyss without the barest thought for his own flesh and blood.
"Useful." That's the heart of it, and there's no need for embellishment. Given enough acclimation to the reason why, it's freeing. "I couldn't have dreamed of resources like this anywhere else. I'm sure the researchers feel much the same."
Figuratively, when applicable.
Ironic, he thinks, with just enough good sense to hold back a snort of laughter, that a question like that is more relevant now than it ever was back in Hasmal. He would have had to ask Myr then, who could certainly have waxed lengthily poetic about Casimir's sense of humor or lack thereof, whichever it was. There must have been something Van was never privy to. (There was a lot that Van was never privy to.)
"I loved him, and I betrayed his trust, and he suffered for it--"
It can't have been the betrayal alone that would prompt Myr to dive headlong into the abyss without the barest thought for his own flesh and blood.
"Useful." That's the heart of it, and there's no need for embellishment. Given enough acclimation to the reason why, it's freeing. "I couldn't have dreamed of resources like this anywhere else. I'm sure the researchers feel much the same."
Figuratively, when applicable.
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