closed.

[propulsion]

WHO: Tony Stark and VIPs only.
WHAT: A diverse array of socialising.
WHEN: Throughout Firstfall.
WHERE: Many places!
NOTES: This is a catch-all of pre-planned-ish threads. Happy to create starters if you want to do a thing, and feel free to turn any of these into action spam if your brain prefers it. Warnings for casual drug use, I guess!

Comments

workshops; howard.

[propulsion]

It's late, which is a relativistic term that applies to people who keep normal schedules. For people who work whenever they want, it's simply the evening, which arguably makes for ideal conditions with which to work, unless you have a girlfriend who judges you about it. Which neither of the men in this room have, in this reality, so that's fine. There's a burning hearth that provides a good quantity of heat and light to the workspace, helped by some burning sconces and several candles and their slow moving waterfalls of wax.

On the table between them are sheets of parchment, on which are diagrams and notes drawn in Tony's precise hand. The central one is an exploded depiction of a device, lots of circular patterns, drawn to scale in metric measurements, and then more alien additions -- some runic symbols copied down, referenced, translated.

Howard by now knows the principle of what the glowing thing in Tony's chest is meant to be -- an electromagnet powered by a small and powerful energy generator, the implications of which perhaps Tony has downplayed to some extent and allowed the context of being from the future to fill in some blanks. What it has become is now sketched out between them in detail, Tony having pointed to some of the key items. The core of refined lyrium, the outer ring of some previously unknown mineral he's now narrowed down to a few possibilities that will need to be tested, the runic inscriptions.

"It's doing magic," in conclusion. Tony, by now, relaxing back into his chair with the front feet of it lifted off the ground, hands clasped around a cup of room temperature wine. "Hooked into a miniaturised-- Barrier, spell," said haltingly, reluctantly, "enchantment, whatever. And I can probably make more of 'em."

thank you for your patience

[achievable]

That’s the first statement in at least two minutes to get Howard to lift his attention from the diagrams, which he’s been leaning over, forearms planted flat on the table, following along as best he can. And as best he can is pretty good, even though some of the science behind the explanation is (don’t make him say it) more advanced than he’s familiar with, and all of the enchantment is, well—

“Do you think you can make them stop calling it magic, while you’re at it? Unless you’re planning to generate rabbits out of hats.”

Petty. He can deal with it, really.

He stands all the way up. For a very brief moment he narrows his eyes at Mr Tony St. Rhodes-Potts, before chalking up a flash of familiarity to odd shadows from the firelight and craning his neck to force an impolite man-among-men joint pop.