COOLER THAN BEING COOL || closed

[inkindled]

WHO: Barrow, Cosima, Fingon, and Matthias
WHAT: the gang researches winter
WHEN: fantasy July
WHERE: NOT Emprise du Lion. Antiva.
NOTES: none (for now)

Efforts to eradicate the red lyrium in Emprise du Lion have been ongoing, but hampered by the prolonged freeze—now going on four years of bitter cold, even in the summer—that both encourages the red lyrium's growth and has made keeping a population of workers and soldiers in the area increasingly unviable. It's also just damn difficult. As there's no artifact anyone has seen in Emprise du Lion in these last four years that's helpfully labeled "SOURCE OF ETERNAL WINTER," a team will be tasked with researching possible causes and methods of weather control to get a better idea of what people should be looking for on the ground....

Comments

Devrenix Alfonsi -- the merchant

[inkindled]

"But you are all so charming! You must stay to dinner. My husband, he will insist."

Devrenix Alfonsi has this gigantic beautiful smile full of long white teeth, and a fall of dark hair that is held back from her face by two bejeweled combs. There is a glitter about her whole person, from her richly appointed clothes to the rings that she wears on her slender fingers, to the gleam in her eye.

The Alfonsi shop had been easy to find, situated on a corner in a reputable section of Antiva City. Its wares are as glittery as its proprietress: glass vials of tinctures and potions and remedies, bottles of wine and liquor, a case full of bejeweled chests and boxes, bolts of silk lining the shelves like rich books. A little bit of everything to tempt the Antivan heart.

It's near closing, so the shop is empty but for their decidedly non-Antivan group. Devrenix had greeted them warmly anyways, but had abandoned her sales pitch quickly when they'd told her what they were after. She has remained warm, and smiling--but she rather reminds Matthias of an insect. He's trying not to say that. He's actually trying not to say anything, stood at the back of their group and avoiding Devrenix's gaze.

She smiles coyly at him anyways, then turns that smile on the others in turn. She is leaning across her counter, her forearms resting on its polished marble top, and she cants her head to one side when her gaze finds Fingon.

"I only wish that I could be of some help to you, but alas... your sources must have told you that I have counted myself an Antivan for so long now. What use might I be to all of you? I wish that you might use me," and she slides her gaze over to Cosima, as her smile tints toward a smirk. "Alas, alas."

[youwonscience]

Cosima smiles, warm but not too warm. "I promise we're not here to ask you anything you'd blush to tell your husband about. Or my fiancee, while we're at it." She doesn't look Antivan, or even really Thedosian, for all everything she's wearing but her boots and her glasses is native and her fingerless gloves hide the shard when it's not glowing. She does, however, seem harmless and friendly, and decides that's their most likely way forward.

"The little bird told us you might be able to help us out with this weird research project we're looking into. About some strange weather they've been having in part of Orlais."

Didier Duret -- the scholar

[inkindled]

The library's antechamber has a little table for bookbinding and a single chair. There had briefly been a book on the table, with a calfskin binding, very new, but when Duret had entered he had picked it up, and given them all a very shrewd and jealous look.

But other than these fixtures, and the narrow door to the library beyond, the room is otherwise empty. Which doesn't help it from feeling very crowded. There's something about overt prejudice and bizarre paranoia that fills in all the free space and sucks the oxygen out of the place.

The smell of prunes doesn't help. Because: the antechamber also smells of prunes. But that might be an odor coming off of Duret himself. The aged scholar is wearing a prune-colored coat with long tails, and his shoes look quite polished. He's a spry man, despite the hunch of his shoulders. His earlobes hang curiously low, nearly drooping over his shoulders like two fat teardrops of skin.

"Your servant shouldn't touch," he warns them, in a quaver. He means Fingon, who he'd assumed (before introductions or lies could be told) to be a member of their staff. "None of you should touch. The oils, that are on the fingers. They stain. They can destroy. And these books are so precious--some of them the very last in existence. The very last!"

He fishes a great big ring of keys out of his pocket, and begins to pick through them. His fingernails are just a little too long for fashion or common hygiene to sanction. Whatever lies their squad has told needs to be kept up, but Matthias is already turning white with the pressure of it. And he's just a mage. Imagine being an elf, or, Maker forbid, a Rifter.