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."
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?