WHO: Fitcher + Wysteria + Flint & You WHAT: Catch-all WHEN: Firstfall-ish WHERE: Kirkwall and stuff. NOTES: Will update if necessary. Feel free to grab me if you want a specific starter/wildcard me, baby.
[It's fine; the smoke is...slowly clearing. But also--
A long beat follows. And then very abruptly, Wysteria stumbles out of the cloud of smoke in the general direction of the doorway. She has her eyes closed (the dissipating smoke stings; the tang on the air is sharp and bitter), and the collar of her underlayers tugged up in an attempt to cover her mouth and nose. Maybe it's the haste at which she emerges which leads her to collide with the next worktable, dislodging a series of papers, rattling a number of delicate glass contains, and sending an inkpot balances slightly too close to the edge crashing to the workroom floor.
She leaves mottles black footprints as she, coughing, feels her way toward the open door.]
[To say he's alarmed at her evident distress is an understatement. But for better or worse, the thing he reaches for in this moment is something best described as teacher voice. He reaches for her elbow.]
Miss Poppell, here, let me help you out of here. It's Enchanter Julius, I've got you.
[Of course if she can't hear, or if she doesn't let him take her elbow, he doesn't have an immediate back-up plan. He's working on it. (At least the smoke is clearing.)]
[The elbow is captured easily enough, though for a split second she seems alarmed by it - balking less to pull herself free, and seemingly more startled by the fact that she has an elbow at all to begin with and that it connects to her shoulder and so the rest of her body and thus she may be tugged along from the fringes of the smoke and through the doorway out of the fumigated work room.]
That is very kind of you.
[She gives a few last paltry coughs, waving her hand in front of her face as if to clear the air further; up close, there is a distinctly frazzled and disoriented swing to the line of her attention. His hand on her elbow is all strange points of pressure, and her free hand is touching the ties of the leather apron she is wearing over her clothes but she isn't certain why; the shape of the knot is baffling under her fingers--
When she looks at him again, his face seems very new. Disconnected from the person who had said-- something, the texture of it slipping between her fingers.
[He looks her over, briskly but thoroughly, for any immediate injury once they're clear of the smoke. Her question captures his attention, however, and he glances up.]
I haven't the slightest idea. You were the one in the room, I just happened to be passing when whatever it is went wrong.
[The barest pause.]
...I assume you didn't intend to fill the workshop with unpleasant smoke.
[No visible injuries, but she is clearly bewildered and pauses for a moment to search his face as if she might find an answer there. Her hands are still fumbling absently with the knotted apron strings are her side like she's forgotten them.
A half turn back the way she'd come and--oh, that smoke. She blinks back.]
Oh, I suppose I must have. My mistake, Enchanter...-- [A pause. He'd said his name, and there is goes slipping between her fingers like so much...something or other.]
[It's the tone that catches him short. She might simply call him 'Enchanter'; that's not so odd. But it sounds like she'd intended to continue, and trailed off, which is hardly like her. He considers her face more closely.]
...Julius. Right. Infirmary then, though we should probably put some sort of warning out here just in case.
[He hopes no one else had been in the workshop. It seems increasingly unlikely she'd be able to tell him. He considers her a moment longer, then adds:]
[Necessary, is what she means to say as her attention drifts beyond him then catches sight of some interesting mottling of sunlight or the drift of dust motes. When she looks back at him, it occurs to her with alarming clarity that she isn't certain how long she has paused for or what exactly precipitation the hesitation in the first place or indeed what direction of thought she had been trending in before it. The sense of disquiet is abruptly consuming - like a door being shut in a room with no windows.
[His tone is even, calm but not soothing without basis.]
But I'm not a healer and I think it's best we get you to someone a bit more experienced to be sure. Will you let me escort you?
[He's gambling that propriety will get him over the hump of unfamiliarity. She still seems very much herself, if certainly disoriented. Luckily, "calm in a crisis" is a milieu Julius is well equipped to occupy.]
[For a moment, that scattered sense persists and is merely underscored by the cold spike of anxiety. The point of her attention flits nervously about, to his face and then back to the room, and then to her own hands as if she might find something revelatory there. When she at least looks back to him, she is certain she should have arrived by an answer already-- Escort her?]
In which direction?
[Being more or less the tenor of her confusion, which persists even should be be helpfully steered in the right one.]
Downstairs to the infirmary, [he says, even and outwardly unshaken.] If you'll take my arm, I'll be very happy to accompany you. With a bit of luck, you'll start feeling clearer headed on your own, but it can't hurt to have someone take a look.
[There is a long beat in which she doesn't take his arm - not for lack of faith, exactly, but because-- oh, there, she has untangled her fingers from her apron's cords once more (which seem very important for some reason; as if undoing the knot and and leaving the heavy leather article where it belongs is very pressing business indeed). With a flustered noise of exasperation, Wysteria slides her hand into the expectant crook of Julius' arm and they're off.
It's only after their first dozen steps in the right direction that the answer comes to her. She balks.]
There is a hook in the workshop. I'm meant to leave the apron there.
[He doesn't let her arm go, his hold firm but not rough.]
I'll remind you to give it to me when we arrive. Then I can take it back for you. If anyone asks about it later, it's entirely my fault, and I'll note that you wanted to go back for them, hm? No one will blame you.
[He's not sure if that will be good enough, but it's worth a try.]
[Her hesitation is clear in every line of her, an impulse to linger - but then, just as obvious, she sets it aside. There are two options to hand, and she has already traveled partially down the path of trusting him. Where will she be if she backtracks on that point?]
Very well, Enchanter. Then lead on. Who knows; if we're very quick about it [--it? This pause has a searching quality to it, and is brief. An uncertainty about what it is exactly, though she know he has said once or twice already, followed by brisk effort to move beyond it--] Then it's possible that no one will be the wiser. About any part of it.
[She is not glancing back toward the work room to see the smoke dissipating; she will just hope it is gone by the time anyone else passes in this direction.]
[It gives him just enough pause. Making a decision, he says,] Please stand back a bit, this will only take a moment.
[A small glyph of repulsion on the door serves a double purpose. Another mage will see it as a warning; someone who doesn't know what they're looking at it will trigger it and be (relatively gently) pushed back. It's better than nothing until he can backtrack. Or so he tells himself.]
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no subject
A long beat follows. And then very abruptly, Wysteria stumbles out of the cloud of smoke in the general direction of the doorway. She has her eyes closed (the dissipating smoke stings; the tang on the air is sharp and bitter), and the collar of her underlayers tugged up in an attempt to cover her mouth and nose. Maybe it's the haste at which she emerges which leads her to collide with the next worktable, dislodging a series of papers, rattling a number of delicate glass contains, and sending an inkpot balances slightly too close to the edge crashing to the workroom floor.
She leaves mottles black footprints as she, coughing, feels her way toward the open door.]
no subject
Miss Poppell, here, let me help you out of here. It's Enchanter Julius, I've got you.
[Of course if she can't hear, or if she doesn't let him take her elbow, he doesn't have an immediate back-up plan. He's working on it. (At least the smoke is clearing.)]
no subject
That is very kind of you.
[She gives a few last paltry coughs, waving her hand in front of her face as if to clear the air further; up close, there is a distinctly frazzled and disoriented swing to the line of her attention. His hand on her elbow is all strange points of pressure, and her free hand is touching the ties of the leather apron she is wearing over her clothes but she isn't certain why; the shape of the knot is baffling under her fingers--
When she looks at him again, his face seems very new. Disconnected from the person who had said-- something, the texture of it slipping between her fingers.
(No, those are the apron strings again.)]
What was that?
no subject
I haven't the slightest idea. You were the one in the room, I just happened to be passing when whatever it is went wrong.
[The barest pause.]
...I assume you didn't intend to fill the workshop with unpleasant smoke.
no subject
[No visible injuries, but she is clearly bewildered and pauses for a moment to search his face as if she might find an answer there. Her hands are still fumbling absently with the knotted apron strings are her side like she's forgotten them.
A half turn back the way she'd come and--oh, that smoke. She blinks back.]
Oh, I suppose I must have. My mistake, Enchanter...-- [A pause. He'd said his name, and there is goes slipping between her fingers like so much...something or other.]
no subject
...Julius. Right. Infirmary then, though we should probably put some sort of warning out here just in case.
[He hopes no one else had been in the workshop. It seems increasingly unlikely she'd be able to tell him. He considers her a moment longer, then adds:]
Or maybe just a repulsion glyph for expediency.
no subject
[Necessary, is what she means to say as her attention drifts beyond him then catches sight of some interesting mottling of sunlight or the drift of dust motes. When she looks back at him, it occurs to her with alarming clarity that she isn't certain how long she has paused for or what exactly precipitation the hesitation in the first place or indeed what direction of thought she had been trending in before it. The sense of disquiet is abruptly consuming - like a door being shut in a room with no windows.
The sudden unease must show in her face.]
Have I poisoned myself?
[(No; but who could say?)]
no subject
[His tone is even, calm but not soothing without basis.]
But I'm not a healer and I think it's best we get you to someone a bit more experienced to be sure. Will you let me escort you?
[He's gambling that propriety will get him over the hump of unfamiliarity. She still seems very much herself, if certainly disoriented. Luckily, "calm in a crisis" is a milieu Julius is well equipped to occupy.]
no subject
In which direction?
[Being more or less the tenor of her confusion, which persists even should be be helpfully steered in the right one.]
no subject
[He offers his arm, unrushed but expectant.]
no subject
It's only after their first dozen steps in the right direction that the answer comes to her. She balks.]
There is a hook in the workshop. I'm meant to leave the apron there.
no subject
I'll remind you to give it to me when we arrive. Then I can take it back for you. If anyone asks about it later, it's entirely my fault, and I'll note that you wanted to go back for them, hm? No one will blame you.
[He's not sure if that will be good enough, but it's worth a try.]
no subject
Very well, Enchanter. Then lead on. Who knows; if we're very quick about it [--it? This pause has a searching quality to it, and is brief. An uncertainty about what it is exactly, though she know he has said once or twice already, followed by brisk effort to move beyond it--] Then it's possible that no one will be the wiser. About any part of it.
[She is not glancing back toward the work room to see the smoke dissipating; she will just hope it is gone by the time anyone else passes in this direction.]
no subject
[A small glyph of repulsion on the door serves a double purpose. Another mage will see it as a warning; someone who doesn't know what they're looking at it will trigger it and be (relatively gently) pushed back. It's better than nothing until he can backtrack. Or so he tells himself.]
There. Better. Alright, let's go.