How to Train Your Draconology Expert (closed)

[overharrowed]

WHO: Julius, Fitcher
WHAT: Reading draconologist resumes, being disappointed mostly
WHEN: Drakonis
WHERE: somewhere in the Free Marches, Starkhaven-adjacent
NOTES: OOC info

Ydalla de Vittoria had been disappointing, but straightforward enough. He knew enough to be able to understand dense academic text, and his writing was engaging; if it hadn't been for all the lying, he might even have carved out a place for himself explaining the research to laypeople openly. But a need to feel heroic interfered. Annoying, but straightforward. They'd still gotten some usable information about dragons out of the work, at least.

Brochard had been something else again. The end of the interview, while abrupt, could hardly have been fast enough for Julius' taste. However, he gives no hint of anything other than sympathetic interest until they're safely in the carriage and underway. His expression melts to something franker and more rueful almost immediately.

"Maker. What a sorry state of affairs."

Comments

[unshut]

The woman who had been all sweetness and understanding during their interview, perched on a rickety stool with her traveling desk laid across her knees to take notes on as a studious and willing clerk ought to, theoretically shouldn't be quite so quick to agree with the dour assessment and yet—

Fitcher blows out her cheeks and unceremoniously dumps her notes into the case beside her. If they get wrinkled by whatever else is clattering around in there, it will be no official loss whatsoever.

"Andraste's ashes," she laughs. It's that or be irritated, and she cannot bring herself to be angry over a wallowing old drunkard. "I will never have the smell of that place out of my clothes."