open

[bouchonne]

WHO: Byerly & Kitty & you
WHAT: Open log! Assorted prompts!
WHEN: Months of Harvestmere & then Firstfall
WHERE: In and around Kirkwall
NOTES: If you're not into this junk tell me what junk you're into and I'll give you that junk

Prompts in comments my pretties. If none of em catch your fancy, then just throw up something that does.

Comments

research office

[rathercommon]

[ Have you wanted to get in to see Thranduil? To leave some report on research you've done or collected? Just want a consultation? Well...Too bad. Because in your way is a rather tall girl who's quite thin but also it's easy to tell by the way her arms are crossed, and by the very large mabari at her side, that she's not going to be easy to budge. ]

What do you need?

[ Once, this role was filled by Casimir, who was calm and none too difficult. Now it is filled by a moody teenage girl. Definitely a downgrade. ]

[propulsion]

[ Tony is eyeing the dog more than he is the teenage girl who is as tall-- taller, by a hair-- than he is, wondering if this many giant dogs routinely coming in and out of one building is OSHA approved.

But either way, he is stopped. Probably by now at least seen about town, 'rifter' as a first impression stamped all over him. Today, he's avoiding curious stares at the centre of his chest by wearing a jacket of dense enough weave to trap the spill of glowing blue light. In his hands is a collection of loose leaf pages, all marked by different hands and methods of note taking. ]

Hi, [ he says. ] Kitty, right?

[rathercommon]

Mm.

[ She nods, and squints a moment, and then manages to pull out - ]

Mr Stark, right?

[ She hopes that's right. Regardless, her hostility eases somewhat; she knows from reputation that he's been poking around in things and digging into things, so whatever he's bringing, it's likely interesting. ]

What have you got?

[propulsion]

Mhm.

[ How weird, suddenly, that people who barely know him now finally might know his name ahead of time. Maybe by new year he'll be famous again. Anything could happen.

He fans out the collection of notes. Rumpled in places, ink smears, other stains from by virtue of being produced during fieldwork. It's hardly a formal report, but-- ]

Some, uh. Preliminary anchor-rift research. You want it?

[ --like, maybe she will compile it for him, is that her job? That would be great. ]

[rathercommon]

[ She looks at it - and then her open, curious expression immediately turns into disapproval. ]

Why's there - Did you spill water on it?

[propulsion]

[ There's a pause, and then Tony looks down at the pages with a slight rustle of reorienting them to do so. ]

That might be-- there was a river. And Ms Poppell had an accident. No big, still legible, but I'll pass along your feedback.

[rathercommon]

[ She sorts through the paper, issuing a series of noises from her throat that escalate gradually in disapproval and volume. Finally - ]

These are illegible.

[propulsion]

Can we make that a compliment sandwich? She's a little, you know. Particular. You were very thorough, these are illegible, good job taking notes during demonic assault.

[ No? ]

We're a little short staffed, okay.

[rathercommon]

Yeah. I've noticed. But you're perfectly capable of rewriting these, aren't you?

[ She picks up a particularly crumply one and holds it out for him to take. ]

[propulsion]

[ This is the epitome of a situation in which he hates being handed things, but on account of they are standing basically in the doorway, he will, very bravely, allow it to happen, hand at a hesitant hover before he takes it from her via the corner. Bad and wrong.

Then more casually uses his other hand to accept back more pages anyway as he adds; ]

Here, there's the-- that one, there, I need it to do this one. Thanks.

[ He compiles them together, now peering at her. ]

You're from the clan of otherworldly green glitter high fives too, right.

[rathercommon]

A Rifter, you mean? You could have said that a lot faster.

[ But - ]

Yeah. Here, come inside. You can use my desk to rewrite the notes.

[propulsion]

[ Tony does so, a faint impression of amusement at quasi-correction in the corners of his eyes as he moves towards the indicated desk. Pulling up a chair, eyeing off the writing utensils with the look of a person who has gotten used to using them, by now.

But under duress. ]

Probably you might give a crap about this stuff. What's your world called?

[ Patpatting out the crumpled parchment leaves. Once he gets started, his handwriting looks very suspiciously similar to the one that got river'd. ]

[rathercommon]

[ It's a question that sounds strange enough to make her squint, but upon thought, which makes a lot of sense. ]

Earth. Yours?

[propulsion]

[ That gets his attention, eye contact direct and thoughtful, but he's cautious about reading too much into it. Time disparity's one thing he's already wrestling with conceptually, and 'Earth' is something of a basic bitch name.

No, okay, it's because he wasn't immediately recognised and acknowledged is what's giving him pause.

Still. He fidgets the pen between his fingers. ]

Also Earth. United States of America, 2013.

[rathercommon]

United States?

[ Her brows draw down slightly. But: ]

I'm from London. 2002.

[propulsion]

[ Forgetting about his notes for now, Tony lists back in his seat, expression speculative. ]

Okay.

[ He points at her with the pen. ]

Why'd you sound italicised just now?

[rathercommon]

[ Baffled: ]

Why do I sound what?

[propulsion]

[ Still pointing, undeterred; ]

You were like 'United States', question mark. So what's the question.

[rathercommon]

Oh.

[ A shrug. ]

Just - I know the American colonies, obviously. So America's a name I know. But I've never heard of any states out there, united or divided or anything. You've heard of London, though, right?

[propulsion]

[ The pointing remains for a moment and a half of pause, before his hand drops. Huh. ]

Sure. God save the Queen.

[ And he pivots his attention back to the notes in front of him. He scratches out more rows of numbers, some clarifying notes. ]

It's a small infinite universe.

[rathercommon]

Have you got some theory, then?

[propulsion]

Not really.

[ That's an easy thing to confess, genius or no. ]

Gigantic pool of possibility, not a lot of data to chart it out. I guess surveying rifters and compiling the commonalities and differences would be a starting point, but that sounds--

Uh. Boring, [ admittedly, ] and super unreliable. And literally no one native to here cares. Probably not most rifters, either.

[rathercommon]

[ A shrug. ]

Seems more likely that their theories are right. [ A small gesture - ] About how we're dreams from the Fade.

[propulsion]

Yeah I don't care for that.

[ Which isn't to say he wholesale disagrees with it, not looking up as he continues to write.

But for the sake of argument-- ]

If you come from a world where gatecrashing aliens via interdimensional portals is the norm, you're gonna theorise that we're aliens from other dimensions. Or you exist in a virtual reality so maybe we're rogue programmes coded in, who knows, right. If you come from here, everything fits into categories demons, mages, or dream-stuff.

[ He finishes his list of notes with a slight flourish, and sits back in his chair. ] Thedas-bias. How's this?

[ He means the parchment, which he holds out for her to take. Legible if a little inexplicable. ]

[rathercommon]

[ Kitty takes the notes, and looks at them, and then returns them to him. ]

And now try writing them in a way that'll make sense to someone who's not you, please.