open | tracks will fade in the snow

[libratus]

WHO: Ilias Fabria + YOU
WHAT: Open post + catch-all for the month
WHEN: Harvestmere
WHERE: Around the Gallows, mostly
NOTES: Feel free to toss your own starter at this if you'd rather!

labs / infirmary;

[ A Mortalitasi walks into the Gallows. There ought to be a punch line, is what he thinks while he does it. Clio would have given it a good punch line. He would have written her a letter, Today I sailed up the Waking Sea in a cabin the size of Grandmother's pantry, sick as you after that custard, and when I landed, they put me on another boat. "You must have been dying to get there." "Sounds like the perfect place to hang around." Something better. Cleverer. The rafters are quite high.

When Ilias reaches the laboratory space that is to be his new home, he still has a touch of pallor, grey to match his robes. But steady hands pull vial and jar from a travel chest, rod and hook, placing each one precisely in its place. The space is different. The people will be different. The work, too. But he can find ways to make himself useful here. It's why he'd picked the Inquisition — a safer place for him today than Nevarra City, even his Grandmother could not argue with that, but not a safe place. Not anyone's gilded cage.

Still, he'll need the tools for it. A bedroll, in case of late nights, is the last thing he pulls from the chest, but not the last thing he needs.

So it's to the infirmary next, by pale lamplight and cautious step. It's late, perhaps a little later than he ought to be poking around a building he hasn't specifically been granted access to, but his nosing is restrained— ]

Excuse me. [ —And his sheepishness is genuine, upon discovering he's less alone than he'd hoped. ] I meant no intrusion.

library;

[ He isn't here to judge the Gallows' library. Truly, he isn't. It's important to understand what one has to work with. The Necropolis would be an unfair comparison, he'd known that before he stepped through the doors, but even Nevarra City's Circle had its specialities. Its particular benefactors. The Gallows, he assumes, will have the same.

Fewer benefactors, he gathers rather quickly.

Still, Ilias cranes his neck to scan the shelves, top to bottom. Careful fingers ghost across the exposed spines, but it's his face that betrays his mind. A considering hover of the eyes over Beyond the Veil. A warm cringe at Enchanter van Heigl's A Life Among the Dead. A gentle raise of the brows at Our Honoured Dead: A Guide to the Mortalitasi Order.

Well. It's better than nothing. ]

kitchens;

[ It'd been late when he'd started; by the time Ilias finds his way to the mage tower's kitchens, it's well into the small hours, the time of night when quiet beings to take on a certain density, a heaviness in the dark. There's a bed somewhere he's not in, a room whose walls and ceilings he's not eager to get to know just yet. Instead, he has a candle burning down at his right side, a cup of tea at his left getting bitter and cold.

In front of him are just papers — pamphlets, Inquisition briefings, the things every new recruit should know about the state of the world, and a few about its future. A battle they know is coming and can't stop. His breath slows, just so. Knuckles tap-tap against the surface of the table like a count-down before he pulls away, abandoning the lot of it. Not forever, just— he could use a smoke. Fresh air. Stretch his legs. Something.

(Maybe he should have picked the cage.) ]

Comments

[libratus]

[ He'd noticed. The smile on Ilias's lips comes in the restrained shade of tolerant — the one in his eyes, however, has substantially more life to it. Enjoying her antics despite himself. He pulls his arms back neatly to his sides, bows his chin a touch in thanks. ]

If there is anything specific I find I need, I will look into it.

[ But at the moment, perhaps the woman in front of him is as worthwhile a subject of study as any book. ]

You are not scandalized by mages, my lady? Or by Mortalitasi?

[champions]

( Her smile is ever present, it seems, but warms a little, the mirth a little more conspiratorial as she presents her hand with a flourish, and blows. Snowflakes tumble from her fingertips as though she had blown away dust, catching the shafts of light cutting through the library and sparkling before they hit the ground and melt away. )

I am scandalised by people who do not respect spirits, and who believe mages belong in prisons. I may not be Nevarran,

( in case he could have missed the Antivan accent, ) But I have family who are, and I have been taught a reverence for the dead. I am grateful for the work of the Mortalitasi.

[libratus]

[ Some small part of him is aware that theatrics are for show and nothing more, empty of particular meaning, but that doesn't keep hers from being effective. His chin ducks a touch, echos of a boy more easily dazzled and prone to fluster -- embarrassing, in an adult. He clamps down on the impulse quickly.

(Though the word prisons earns a certain shift of the eyes -- of the polite, keeping-one's-mouth-shut sort.) ]

My colleagues would be glad to hear it -- as am I. [ With a gracious dip of the chin, ] Speaker Ilias Fabria, at your service, señora.

[champions]

( She might be devoid of attraction to men, save for objective acknowledgement of pleasing symmetry and so on, but she does enjoy their reactions, and understanding how to provoke them, even only to dazzle, could be very useful. )

Speaker Fabria, it is an honour. Lady Marisol Vivas.

( That shift of the eyes was interesting, but what does it mean? Curious. ) Perhaps speak to the Provost. He is a rifter by the name of Thranduil, and leads the Research division. It may be that he can source particular tomes for you, especially if you frame it in a way... beneficial to the Inquisition.