tony stark. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
propulsion) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
faderift2019-10-14 09:36 pm
propulsion) wrote in faderift2019-10-14 09:36 pm
open and closed.
WHO: Tony Stark and some well coordinated back up dancers.
WHAT: Some open prompts about scientific pursuit under the cut, and some pre-planned starters below.
WHEN: Throughout Harvestmere. What is time?
WHERE: The workshops in the Gallows; the wilds of the Free Marches; and others.
NOTES: Feel free to use action spam tags if you prefer, and contact me if you'd like to do something different/specific! The field work has two prompts, feel free to pick either one and threadjack if your preferred already exists.
WHAT: Some open prompts about scientific pursuit under the cut, and some pre-planned starters below.
WHEN: Throughout Harvestmere. What is time?
WHERE: The workshops in the Gallows; the wilds of the Free Marches; and others.
NOTES: Feel free to use action spam tags if you prefer, and contact me if you'd like to do something different/specific! The field work has two prompts, feel free to pick either one and threadjack if your preferred already exists.
WORKSHOPS; LATE AT NIGHT.Golden lamp light creeps out from beneath the door of one workshop, and for most evenings, well into the pre-dawn hours, that's really all the output that anyone need worry about. Maybe the occasional mutter, mostly muffled by thick wood and thick stone.
Tonight, however, disturbance and noise ekes through the barriers. It mostly starts as an intermittent sound of shattering glass, the strange thunder-strike sound of an anchor-shard firing, should you have the familiarity to make that connection, along with the spill of green light peeking from beneath the door into the hallway, flashing like lightning.
Glass scraped aside, some thumps of moving furniture, footsteps.
And then ("three, two--") another shattering, louder, that crack of sonic energy detonating, and then--
Yelling. "Damnit-- ow, ow, crap--" And if the lamp light coming out from beneath the door looks a little brighter, flickering, hotter-- well, there's probably a reason.
FIELD WORK; VARIOUS.There is a rift taking up space in a paddock, hovering something like ten feet in the air. Nearby, a sheep corpse is decaying in the late afternoon haze, eyes staring and stupider than when it was alive, oily grey wool burned black where errant energy struck it dead where it stood. Its companions had the sense to get out of the way, but not the better sense to do so more than something like forty, fifty feet.
Tidy piles of sheep shit are dispersed intermittently among the dewy grass.
"Look alive," Tony says, to those he dragged out here today. "We're losing the light. Hand me that?"
Without too much in the way of explanation, he starts moving in a circle around the rift with a bundle of what look like bronze pokers in his hand, well-made, tapering into a spiral at the end, the other sharp so as best to be staked into the ground, which he does. Mages of specific studious inclination may recognise these as measuring tools to capture outputs of spells, as with the device in his hand -- also bronze, finely made, a little scratched and dull in spots.
The rift pulses with warning, green lightning bolt-type activity licking the grass beneath it, and the dense clouds above rumble with coming lashings of rain.
A later day, Riftwatch locates a rift over a river -- more like a stream, but wide, almost a hundred feet across of water rushing around and occasionally burbling over water-smooth rocks, some enough to stand and step on, others enough to catch a foot and turn an ankle. The latest distribution of demons have been dispatched, disintegrating into the glistening water with oozing demonic ichor under a late day sun, in a rare clear sky.
Tony comes to a stop near the rift, absently shaking his anchor-shard having hand as it pulses and glows brightly from both recent combat use as well as the rift nearby. In his other hand, which has his attention, is the thaumoscope, its dials and innerworks clicking. "Okay, are you listening?" he calls over towards whomever he saddled scribe duties with today. He is 80% soaked through with river water, and ignores the flow of it high around his ankles. "Passive reading is--"
And he starts listing off the various numerical indicators that we're just gonna handwave.
"Reset," he says, mostly for himself, twisting some dial on the scope. "I wanna get a reading of when it's activated, and then we'll-- give some considerable thought towards closing it, how's that sound."
field work; closed to gwenaëlle, romain.
By the time they're ready to be done with this rift, there are stars beginning to blink into the dark purple sky. There's another solid hour or two of light through which they can make their return to Kirkwall, and the glowing green rupture of energy piercing the air casts more than enough light to see by.
Romain's sword is slick with demon blood, and the terror demon contorts itself in bristling hostility as it circles around this foe.
"We go on one!" someone shouts. Tony, and gosh knows how Gwenaëlle went and introduced him to her grandpappy, but here they are. Around them, in the wooded clearing, he's stuck the thaumoscope spears into the earth, runic engravings on each one glowing a reflected green, while the device in Tony's hand clicks and spins. He has his thumb holding down one of the triggers, and he is half distracted by both tasks as he raises his other hand, anchor-shard crackling and painful.
The shrieks of the terror demon are borderline inconsequential. That guy over there is old but also huge and seems to know what he's doing with a sword, so Tony is choosing not to worry about it. Whatever it is about tonight, in spite of having done this a coupla times now, his heart is going hard in his chest.
Get it over with, get out. "Three, two, one--" He releases the trigger, and he shudders as Fade energy snaps from the rift as a bolt of energy and into his palm.
no subject
Her bow is still strapped to her back, knife instead held loosely in her right hand and her left rising in tandem with Tony's to connect her and the open rift with a jolt that she thinks she'll never get used to. (She sometimes wonders if anyone has, but it's not the sort of question she wants to ask anyone, not least of all because she's sure some of them might answer.)
“Hold it,” she barks, though Orlesian is not an accent well-suited to curtness. “Hold it.”
Someone hold the fucking demons back, while they're at it.
Better late than never
And so here he is, wielding a sword with the bone-deep training of years in the military as a younger man. At least they're down to the one demon, at least for the moment. Working with Guilfoyle is some sort of irony, under the circumstances, but it's almost something like comforting to know that at least there's someone else present who will unhesitatingly put Gwenaëlle's safety first. (Hint: It's not Gwenaëlle herself.) Romain will stand between her and whatever he can, but he's only one man and while he's in good health, he's not as young as he used to be.
Romain goes in for what he intends to be the killing blow when he notices the terror demon's focus drawn away for just an instant. It's unfortunate for the terror demon... but also for them, it turns out, as the air begins to shimmer in a way that signals more demons are coming shortly unless Gwenaëlle and Tony get the rift closed. Telling them to focus would be counterproductive at this point, so he focuses on his own breathing and prepares to ambush a nearby patch of green, should it solidify further.
same
Clik-clik-clik.
Clockwork spins faster in tandem with that pulse of energy, and Tony glances backwards towards the strange destabilisations in the earth that tend to signal the next wave.
Clik.
"I got--"
Even Romain can feel the next pulse of energy in a sort of ambiant concussive sense, but Gwenaëlle and Tony feel it somewhat worse as their connection to the rift is severed for them, a strange and unsettling yank as the rift, in that moment, expands with a heart beat throb.
The thaumoscope drops, out of sight and out of mind, Tony on hands and knees the next time his brain registers what's happening. Wide eyes turn upwards to the floating, shimmering tear in reality as bright green lightning slams into the ground.
Wisps resolve out of thin air, the vague human-shapes flickering like candles flames.
And directly in front of Tony, where Romain is squaring to ambush, the ground bubbles and ripples with black ichor and green light, the terror demon having vanished two seconds ago now hurtling up and into the air. It brings a long arm down in time for Tony to fire off a glimmering wall of Fade energy directly in front of him, demon claws raking across it.
There's a strange whine happening in his ears, blocking out all sound, as he graclessly scrambles backwards.
...same
she thinks, we're all going to die.
It takes at least two anchor-shards to close a rift. There is no softening it up. No one has closed a rift by themselves since Evelyn Trevelyan took an entire mountain to the face, and there is no reason to expect that this is somehow going to be the exception. She has come out with two elderly men and a lunatic and he is panicking and they are all going to fucking die. A large part of her wants to do exactly what Tony's doing and just drop her hand and raise her shield (he can do that now, that's interesting, what a shame they're going to die and no one else is going to know) (and that they're going to die before she can kick the shit out of him for getting them all killed)—
it's the stubborn part of her that doesn't. The part that has said, for the past year: she is probably going to die, but she isn't going to do it sitting on her hands waiting for fuck ups to save her.
Gwenaëlle squares her shoulders, thinks well, it isn't as if the Duke or Guilfoyle were going to die in their beds, anyway, and raises her hand. She is dimly, distantly aware that it feels different this time.
no subject
What he can do is reach for the training that was pounded into him as an officer, decades ago. Guilfoyle is holding his own, but their rifter...
"Stark," he barks, the edge of military training unmissable even with the culture (world) difference in play. "Get up." He's not sure if it will work, but he's had men who occasionally needed the verbal equivalent of a slap in the face. It's worth a try, and it's not as if he's worried about offending the man in this moment. He doesn't even have long enough to see if his order does anything, moving as quickly as he can to avoid the terror demon's strike and to try to draw it away from the rift.
no subject
He'd managed to chuck it into a containment box before detonation. Had Jarvis make a note of it, something like 'self-destruct mode', question mark.
Anyway, in short: this is what Tony feels like his whole brain is doing.
Thedas, rifts, demons, whatever -- mentally, he is back in New York a year ago, and he is falling, and he sees the incredible terrors that lie just beyond their gate. His heart is in his throat and he can't breathe. Someone is yelling his name, and he flinches.
"Sorry," he says, breathless. No one is listening. No one can hear him. His heart is trying to escape his ribcage, but least the terror demon has whirled around to confront the man with the sword. Green light crackles from and around Tony's palm, but he doesn't notice this as he clumsily tries to put distance between himself and whatever is happening right now.
The rift shivers with its own unstable force beneath the assault of Gwenaëlle's anchor, and all at once, she can feel it. That little pull, that sense of finding the threads that are keeping the Veil held open. All she has to do is yank.
no subject
It quite literally comes apart in her hand, the terror demon weakened by the rift's instability and falling beneath her grandfather's sword, the sound of pressure and release something that she feels in her chest, sick green light washing over them and fading to nothing, to remnants in the grass. And quiet, except for the sound of swords being sheathed and Tony's harsh breathing.
For a moment, she cannot comprehend that they aren't dead.
Immediately after that, she stalks after Tony—her hand aglow, a knife not in it only because she couldn't have been holding one and doing that—and makes herself stop rather than just continuing to walk forward until she could kick him in the ribs. The breath she takes is necessary. She stares up at the sky, devoid of demons, and makes sure she's steady before she drops down to her knees and says, clearly, “I'm going to take your hand. I'm not going to hurt you.”
Does she still want to hurt him. Yes, a bit.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
workroom off the herb garden; closed to ilias.
Normally Tony finds somewhere to bunker down until it's daylight if he doesn't feel like hassling Gervais, poring over barely legible scrolls and making notes, tinkering with the tools and materials at his disposal, drawing out charts and illustrations by candlelight and probably destroying his eyeballs in the process. Tonight, restlessness of a soul-deep kind compels him out further. Unfocused.
Although he isn't the only soul knocking around the dusty corners of the Gallows, the silence compared to activity by daylight is oppressive, and it's not exactly easy to fill it with noise. Music playing at verbal command. He tries not to sweat the small stuff.
Anyway, Tony is in a garden.
Apparently.
Standing there with his arms folded, shoulders up against the cold. Dressed in all native clothing, a quilted jacket half-closed over tunic untucked over soft leathers, feet in boots buckled at the calves. There is bristle beginning to grow in between the usually precise angles of his beard, a little silvered in places. His attention pivots, then, to the light coming from a room just off from the courtyard, an errant memory locking into place. There's a friendly person here, right? That second day had been a blur of names and voices.
But Tony goes over to the door and knocks before he can double back on the impulse by thinking about it too hard.
what if i write the same number of words but in smaller font
An expression that unravels at the same stuttering speed that his brain seems to be operating at, at this point in the coffee scarcity/insomnia cycle. First from the corners of his lips, then at his knitting brows, and only as an afterthought darkening his cheeks, just a touch.
Ah. That's not-- ]
Mister-- [ Maker. There are only so many new rifters, one connects gossip to its approximate shape in the dining hall, one's memory belatedly begins to retrack, ] Tony, was it?
[ He offers an apologetic wince, softening in resignation in the irretrievable absence of his dignity. ]
Sorry, I thought-- [ Ahem. ] Nevermind. Are you joining the night shift?
it means the tag is TECHnically smaller
[ --sounds highly rhetorical, having already invited himself all the way up to knocking on the door at ass o'clock at night. Tony kind of rides out Ilias's face journey and abbreviated apology with maybe a twist of amusement in the way his eyes narrow, even if he can't discern all of that. He was expecting someone else.
Maybe someone just as sexy! Unfortunately, Tony's not here for that kind of night cap. ]
Just Tony. And you're Ilias.
[ He was never this good with names back home. Or had less cause to try. Or he's not really himself but some weird memory clone situation, a clone that is better at names. But enough about me-- ]
Keepin' busy?
workshopping.
He hears a crash, familiar swearing; it does nothing for the infant headache threatening to grow into adolescence at the back of his head, but curiosity killed the cat. Maybe it'll kill him too.
(How pleasant you are lately, Mhavos.)
He opens the door slowly and without ceremony, walking slowly toward Tony, seeing how long he can walk toward the man before he's noticed.
no subject
Usually it helps, but there are times here and there where instead of helping her drift off, it sharpens her focus and she just gets a lot of stuff done. When she has stuff to do, anyway. Right now, all she has by way of things to do is walk.
So she's meandering when she hears the crash, meanders towards it, and sees Mhavos also investigating. She stops her meandering at the door jamb and leaning against it to watch Mhavos hunting Tony like a housecat.
no subject
Fortunately, nothing is actively on fire anymore, save for the small hearth which is supposed to be, but not the source of that smell. Burned leather and something strange and ozone-like lingers.
Tony is standing with his shoulder turned to the door, dressed in the clothes he'd crashed through a rift in -- synthetic, form-fitting material, black and grey, sleeves above the elbows and the blue circle of glowing light cutting visible from the centre of his chest. He is also wearing some kind of-- bracer and glove both, formed of leather and some coppery kind of metal buckling it in place. His fingers are exposed, but there is some kind of device strapped to his palm, a circular inset where a lens could be. Or was.
Right now, he is focused on getting it off of him, the faint wisps of smoke still trailing off of it from where he'd extinguished the flames via slapping.
It's probably more paranoia than anything else that sets him off -- the way the warmth of the room escapes through the open door, the shift in still air, and he glances, bodily twitches, brings up that hand as if it were a weapon -- before that hand slaps inwards, over where his heart is approximately located. "Jesus Christ, can you not? Ever do that," is complaint, flash of anger sparked off of spook. "If I close my eyes, do you just keep coming?"
He switches his attention to the shape Athessa makes in the doorway. What the hell. "Sup," he says.
no subject
He looks to Athessa, turning his face away from Tony, and winks.
no subject
"You're so weird," she manages, composing herself and walking forward. She claps Mhavos on the shoulder once and then looks at the gently smoldering Tony.
"The fuck is that?" Casual, nigh on monotonous. She points to the contraption he just rid himself of.
no subject
And other jokes only Tony can appreciate, half-distracted still with loosing himself of his own contraption. Once he does, he inspects his palm, the back of his wrist, having gotten away with some singed arm hair and nothing worse. In the dim light of a room lit just by the low hearth, the green beacon in his hand burns brightly, and he sets about removing the more ordinary glove on his other hand.
Lifts his attention back to the pair of elves who have Apparated into his life and probably aren't even gonna fix his stuff while he's sleeping. Tony moves his arm in implication he's gonna underhand pass to her, before he tosses the device over the few feet necessary for her to catch. It's still smoking in places, but you know.
She'll live. "Focusing device for the anchor," he says. "Or-- supposed to be. But believe it or not, this is progress. Mind the, uh. Hot metal and broken crystal shards." He turns his back on them, moving towards where a bottle of wine is sitting on a table, next to a cup.
"What're you kids doing up anyway."
no subject
He'll worry about it later. For now, he just watches tony, unmoving.
"How are you doing that without magic?" It could be a challenge, but it's not. Mhavos belatedly thinks to add-- "as your research assistant, I am assisting your research."
He takes a step closer to the hearth, genuinely curious, but not knowledge enough about any of the objects before him to make his own guesses.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
field work.
"It's been hours," Ellis points out, though he isn't certain of exactly how many. "We should think very seriously about seeing it closed if you don't want to make camp in the dark."
Is this because it's getting close to nightfall or because Ellis anticipates how much longer Tony would needle at this rift if left to his own devices? He crouches to splash water over his face rather than wait for Tony's answer.
no subject
Is likely not the support Ellis was hoping to get out of the young lad perched at the shoreline, but she doesn't have the attention to devote to being comforting or encouraging. She has a traveling writing desk - a glorified slate placard - on which a sheaf of papers are pinned and she's busily scratching down the last of the various numerical indicators.
But she isn't heartless. Without looking up from her transcription, Wysteria adds, "There's dried fruit in that satchel there if you're in need of something to tide you over in the mean time."
no subject
It's fine, he can give it some TLC later. For now, Tony looks up as Ellis sloshes on over, expression a little affectedly blank just as Wysteria pipes up and does the explaining for him.
A crooked smile blooms, then. "Hear that? We're all set, eat your apricots. Hey," he points, "next demon, we'll tag team, how's that sound. I'll get Ms. Poppell to play Houston."
no subject
Houston. Probably not a monster. Maybe a scholar?
"I'd be glad of the help," Ellis answers as he straightens up, wades all the way up onto the bank over to Wysteria to pick up the bag of dried fruit. He takes care to mind where he's dripping. "But we're all lucky it hasn't started spitting out things bigger than me. I've heard that can happen."
Partly true. Everything Ellis has heard has been in the past month and only vaguely reputable. But still, a good case for quitting while they're ahead as far as he's concerned.
no subject
"I saw a rage demon once while closing a rift near Tantervale. It was just dreadful. But not to worry, Messere. You have two good strong arms there and--" And she has pressing questions which demand her attention. "I'm sorry, Mister Rhodes-Potts, who am I meant to be? I can't very well pretend to be someone if I don't know who they are."
no subject
Tony's occasional impatience with people getting caught up on his ~References~ never really seems to inspire him stopping. That would require a conscious decision behind how he runs his mouth.
Occupied instead, right now, with holding out the thaumoscope for her to take. "It means, this is you," he says. "And you hit this switch when I do the hand laser thing, and then you let it do its thing and then that's gonna start spinning, and you take down those numbers." And then maybe when they have enough numbers, it'll make some sort of sense. That's how science works.
He turns back to Ellis -- or rather, he turns back to the rift, but claps Ellis on the shoulder as he moves to wade out.
"Come on, time's a-wastin'."
no subject
Refraining from saying, Be yourself and don't get to close to the dangerous part of this outing. He doesn't need to make the attempt to wave her back to a comfortable distance to know that would be shot down immediately. He lifts his mace again in his right hand, shaking out his left, and follows Tony in the water.
"If I land the killing blow, we close it. How's that wager sound?"
Though Ellis doesn't sound particularly smug, he is absolutely offering this because he's confident he'll be the one murdering whatever the Rift blurts out into the river. This doesn't feel like a risky bet to him.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)