faderift | closed.

Lady Violant De Vique never asked for all of these books. Neither did her late mother, from whom she inherited them. No one in the family has had the slighted interest in magic—certainly no inclination toward magical ability—and only so much more of an interest in books. Fox hunting, on the other hand. There's a pastime.

So the library is not particularly large, so far as large libraries in massive estates go. It's impossible to get lost in, especially over-stuffed as it is with the remnants of the Starkhaven Circle's collection. Originally considered a loan, when it seemed the lack of a local Circle was temporary, the collection has since been stacked in front of the library's inadequate shelving, left to the dust and silverfish and mice, and never once catalogued.

That four Riftwatch mages are taking care of this has more to do with needing favor and donations than the possibility that any of the books contain the secret to destroying Corypheus and ending the war, but that is the justification offered by Lady De Vique herself, for requesting someone come take a look, along with a barely-subtextual promise to owe them one if they get these horrid things out of her house.

The errand is not complicated so much as made exceedingly more miserable by the heavy storms that roll in the same morning they arrive. The particular irrigation and damming of the Minater in the region—which De Vique is happy to explain, in detail, because caring for the land she oversees is also a pastime—combine with the already-sodden ground to swell the river from its banks, blocking bridges and roads, and by mid-afternoon she's gathered enough endangered farmers and artisans into her walls that the possibility of bedrooms, let alone separate ones, has evaporated.

So has the prospect of loading the lot of the books into a wagon and leaving anytime soon, with rain still beating against the windows and growls of thunder occasionally rattling the shelves well into the evening, letting up overnight only to begin with renewed fury after breakfast.

It is probably not Venatori weather-magic designed specifically to torment the four mages trapped in the library with nothing but bed rolls and one another. Probably.

They need favours, they could stand for the books, travel is safest in number. This isn't a complete waste of time.

Which is easily the most irritating part of it.

Or — no. The most irritating part of it is the way that a stack of papers can become at once dusty and damp, wherever rain drips from an unattended leak or batters through the latches. The most irritating part is that he's dropped his cigarettes in a puddle outside. The most irritating part are the staring glass eyes, soulless and exquisitely expensive, of the De Vique's least-favoured trophies.

(No foxes. Not much of the foxes left, he understands.)

The most irritating part is —

"Present company," He picks a silverfish from his sleeve. "Are unwelcome with the potters, or the weavers. There’s a bit of room by the stairs, but it comes with a baby."

He's been scouting. The library is everyone’s best option.

Edited 2019-07-14 04:40 (UTC)

"Ugh."

With all pretense of propriety abandoned in their relative privacy, Leander has already lain himself down on top of a bedroll, fully clothed, and draped an arm across his eyes. The resulting arrangement of limbs is something like a doll that's been flung down and left there, and maybe the doll is also feeling a little dramatic about it. His leg is definitely encroaching on the bed next to him; but at least he removed his shoes.

On the other hand, his socks were wet, so they're off too. Hope you like feet.

"No thank you. Is there no room in the kitchen? I'd sleep in the dog's bed if it were near the hearth."

No he wouldn't. But he'd consider it, and that's dire enough.

Kostos comes to the edge of the narrow row he's been picking through in the dim light, tattered book in hand, to hear Isaac's report, and then to give Leander a look at is, at least, less annoyed than it would be if he were Ilias.

But he only has so much room to judge. He's taken his shirt off. It was damp.

"Would we drown before we made it to an inn?"

If they would only possibly drown, it may be worth it, even if the inns may also possibly be full.

"We would drown before we got off the estate," comes the reply from the window, which Ilias had just cracked for a breath of fresh air and the vain hope of a cigarette (his didn't fall in a puddle), but closes now at the swift speed of regret.

Flicking the water from his sleeves in what seems like the least immediately damaging direction (his shirt isn't going anywhere, thanks), he circles back toward the rest of them, compensating for the tightening of his jaw throughout the course of the day with an equally determined pretense of calm.

"We are all adults, are we not?" As if he, personally, has acted his age for the entirety of this venture, and certainly deserves a medal for refraining from rolling his eyes at Kostos's abs right now. "Can we not manage to sleep in a room together for one night?"

"Not all of us need to drown."

— Answers Ilias' question. They could get away with anywhere between one and three deaths.

Kostos has taken his shirt off, which is neither a surprise nor a welcome one. Leander has taken his socks off, which means the bedroll beside him is summarily donated to anyone the fuck else. Ilias has pulled his holier-than-thou face back on, which an overly-charitable past self might call dignified.

Lately he can think of some other words.

"Worth it to try a fire?"

In this sodden tinderbox.

"There's certainly enough fuel for it," answers Leander, the grown-up adult man, while helping himself to a less-than-surreptitious eyeful of abs.

He could certainly draw a glyph, which he declines to offer unprompted. Watching people struggle and fuss with something he could solve, if only they'd just ask, is a favourite pastime of his.

Apropos of nothing, he cranes his neck to watch Ilias approach, nearly upside-down from his point of view, looking a bit like he's trying not to smile. "I think we can manage."

The look Kostos casts around is baleful, but he isn’t actually willing to have a temper tantrum while everyone else is wearing their ill-fitting mature adult skin-suits. Instead he says, “Fine,” quietly, and disappears back around the shelf.

Unfortunately for him and everyone, it’s a short shelf, sufficient to hide him from view but not to take him out of earshot.

Thanks that's very helpful would be a technically accurate way to sum up both the looks he gives Isaac and Leander. They're very different looks. Kostos, he's trying very hard not to look anywhere near.

But at least a fire sounds like a more comfortable idea than spending the night soggy and suffering, which had been Ilias's plan. "I thought I saw a dry stack over—" A gesture, a shift in course, "Away from the leak."

There are so many leaks.

"Both of you have more talent for primal magic, could you—?" Decide who feels like being marginally useful, please.

Edited 2019-07-15 05:17 (UTC)

Isaac watches Kostos turn the corner with an expression somewhere between relief and realization. A rowboat containing only an unpleasant, half-naked man is still somewhat preferable to treading water with —

"I'll get it."

He volunteers, in the same way that he's been volunteering for just about everything so far: The horses, the map, wheedling peasants. Not his ordinary habit, and none of it successful. It's a stretch to imagine this will be now. Flame may be about all that Isaac can do, but an outdoor campfire is a bit different than lighting one in a library, however damp.

As the subsequent billow of dark smoke may indicate.

Edited 2019-07-21 05:06 (UTC)

It's a habit of his, learning other people's habits, and this new one is positively charming—and he's positive that he shouldn't point it out. Could, but won't. A private act of goodwill. Poor thing. Things, plural. This must be awkward for... everyone who isn't him.

So, let the record reflect that, when faced with this wonderfully ripe opportunity to roast Isaac for his seeming attempt to roast them all alive, Leander is staying put on his bedroll and keeping all comments to himself.

Unless he happens to catch Ilias's eye, which he probably will, because he's often trying to out of his own habit, in which case he silently mouths, He's got it.

"What the fuck, Isaac," floats out from Kostos' chosen aisle, disembodied, because he isn't coming back out for this. He can't be the only one here who knows how to dispel things, if that's what it comes to.

closed.

II. LIBRARY

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