WHO: Adrasteia, Erik, other folks. WHAT: It's an open log WHEN: Mid to late Guardian WHERE: Kirkwall, &c. NOTES: Erik curses. That's about it. Open starters in threads.
There's still the matter of the post-dream survey he and Wisteria put together to deal with, so Erik can occasionally be found with a thin stack of papers, transcribing notes into a notebook in some corner of the library late in the evening.
He's also decided to start discussing the eventual built of a weapon with the blacksmith, so there's even more reading on that subject. Sketches of weapons and diagrams join his other writings, though these aren't always taken in the library but sometimes in the forge itself, or in the herb garden.
Not to forget, there's always the communal baths, mealtimes, or Erik going through drills in the courtyard as opportunities to run into him.
Even in libraries, different types of creatures come crawling at night.
Dick Dickerson is one such creature: spindly-legged in a great, black-furred cloak, secreting in with an armload of overdue books and a lantern to return them by. He pauses after he enters -- at the sight of another light, or at the scuff of ink on paper -- but proceeds undeterred.
The books are too heavy and stacked too messily to carry all the way back. He deposits them on a table in a slanting cascade, swearing (quietly) in a language familiar only to the snake who slides out of the mix like an eel out of a crab trap.
Oh hey. It's that guy, is what Erik thinks once he places the posture and the body language. It does take him a moment, though, mostly because the books are in the way until they're haphazardly set down on the table over there.
Though the books threatening to hit the floor get Erik to his feet quickly, double-taking at the little snake that appears but still managing to grab several books with his arms before using his body to steady the rest of the pile back onto the table.
"Damn, man." How many books did he borrow at a time to come up with a pile like this? "Your cat and your snake get along?"
Recognition reflected back in equal measure gives Richard a beat’s pause -- his nod comes a little too late for to pass for casual acknowledgement.
He looks quite a bit healthier than he did on the floor of that shack in the swamp, orderly, in spite of the rugged heap of his cloak, and clean. Still poorly-rested, but the damage here isn’t written in as deep -- the difference between a fresh-captured street cur and a terrier who’s spent a few days outside unexpectedly.
He also stinks like he’s been drinking.
“Mister Stevens.”
...Isn’t an answer. He tops off the pile with the one book he’d managed to catch on his own, exchanging it for the snake in question.
"Mister Silas. Since we're mister-ing, I guess." Erik gives a haphazard sort of shrug. He notices the smell, and the general look about the man. Someone is not having a good time of things, he thinks.
Well. A lot of people aren't, by his measure, and most of them didn't even fill out the survey he and Wisteria worked on. "If you told me your real last name it got lost in the shuffle, sorry."
“Force of habit,” says Richard, as he lifts the little snake and deposits her at his collar, “I’m taken to understand most of Miss Poppell’s circle prefers formal designation.”
He is here to return these books -- the quickest way to escape a potentially awkward conversation is to complete that task as efficiently as possible. So he begins, reasonably, by separating tomes off the top of the pile into smaller stacks by subject matter.
"I wouldn't consider myself part of her circle, to be honest." Doing one project together barely makes them coworkers, much less whatever being part of someone's circle implies beyond that. "But you're not the first one to tack a mister onto my name, and I doubt you'll be the last here."
Better than Tony calling him 'Steven', at the very least.
"Having an easier time of it than some people, I'd gather. Would ask if you're doing okay, but..." But he's clearly doing something, and okay is not what Erik would call it. "How long you been here, in Thedas?"
“It’s not a bad circle to be in, provided you prefer listening to speaking.” Whatever that means.
He doesn’t elaborate, and he definitely doesn’t acknowledge the suggestion that he is anything but fine.
There is a stack of books on mages, and one on demons, and one on abominations -- none of them particularly tall. Only so much scientific material is available to the layman in a library like this, and the majority of what he’d borrowed is random, covering everything from dracolisks to religious tradition.
Erik makes a little huff of a laugh at that. Between Wysteria and Tony, he can picture an exact framework in which someone would end up just listening to them go on and on forever. "Dunno if it's for me, but I guess we'll see."
There's an interesting spread of books between them, now that Silas has started organizing them. Erik recognizes the titles on religious traditions and mages, at least, and most of the rest he can sort out based on what he's stacked together.
"Damn." That's a while. Erik scratches at his chin and the beard that is getting a little unruly there. "Did you have the dream the first time it happened too?"
Dick doesn’t have to go far to fit the first few volumes back onto shelves; many of them appear to be housed nearby. Conveniently. It helps that he seems to have the sections mapped out on the underside of his brain, there for easy reference with a pause here or there for ragged, ale-soaked recall.
“The episode during the previous Wintersend?”
That’s the only dream incident that comes to mind for him, after a longer pause for thought, two books in hand. The little grass snake at his collar has slipped almost entirely out of sight beneath it.
“It consisted of a smaller series of incidents that spanned a month or two. I was only very tangentially affected.”
Dude's affinity for, what, familiars or some shit is actually pretty cool, in Erik's consideration, though he keeps being worried that the cat is gonna make a meal out of that garden snake one day. Well. That's not entirely his problem is it?
He dos miss the dog from the dream though. That mabari was pretty fucking cool. Erik picks up a book and scans the shelves before he finds another title by the same author. Does this go here? About to find out.
"I don't know when or what, just that it happened last year. Sister Sawbones told me about it." She'd been pressed as a starched shirt about it too, by his recall, but he'd been worried about brain trauma at the time and hadn't thought much of it.
There’s a blip of uncertainty to him catching it out of the corner of his eye -- a hitch in the process of him shoving one of his own books back up into place. It’s probably fine. Richard is just rotten enough not to trouble himself with checking.
Erik was in here first. Surely he knows what he’s doing.
“Dwarves are naturally incapable of dreaming,” he explains, as he follows it up with book #2. Between them, they’re making quick work of it. “These events tend to be especially unsettling for them.”
Well, it goes there now, and if Erik comes across a librarian or some such lamenting people putting books back in the wrong places, well. He won't stand up and declare himself their enemy or anything.
He presumes librarians are used to that kinda thing, even here.
"Yeah, she mentioned that," it's just real fucking weird, imagining an entire race of people who can't dream. Literally. How do their brains process their shit, he wonders? Be fascinating to see a dwarven brain in a CT scan, but he knows that's not about to happen. "What about where you're from? Prophetic dreams a thing there?"
"What are you working on?" comes quietly, heralding Derrica's arrival before she sets her plate down across from him. The weighted bottom of her mug thunks softly down aside it, though a flicker of hesitation has settled in her expression.
All the diagrams are difficult for her to parse at a glance, but they seem like something complex. Erik might very well ask her to leave him be; she hadn't fully taken in the papers he was looking over before she'd invited herself into his space, but they seem the type to require undivided attention.
"Uh, this is the surveys Wisteria and I asked folks to fill out." He gestures at a pile to his left. "Trying to pool the useful information from them ain't impossible but it ain't easy either, especially since a lot of folks still ain't done the thing." He gives a little shrug. It's not like he can blame them, exactly, but it's not the most helpful tack to take in light of... everything. "The rest," he gestures to what's in front of him, "is for a sword. Maybe a pair of 'em. I haven't decided. But I want a weapon specific to me."
He lifts his eyebrows in the facial equivalent of another shrug. "What's got you up so late?" Also is she gonna share her food because he's eyeing it.
The plate is turned towards him, silent invitation to the contents extended. It's a mish-mash of what can be begged from the kitchen at this hour: hearth cakes smeared with jam, slices of cheese and cuts of ham, a few pieces of slightly scorched toast.
"Don't tell Mhavos I brought food in here," is the condition, even though Derrica isn't sure whether or not it's officially banned or just strongly implied. She curls her fingers around the sides of the mug, looking again at the diagrams. "Is that what you used at home? A sword?"
Though considering the lingering unease left in the wake of the dream, it isn't any wonder people are moving to do...anything that might be of use. To Derrica, the sword might be a better investment than a survey, but she isn't a scientist, or a martial fighter. Her consideration is limited.
"I'm not a particular fan of snitchin'," he says by way of reassurance, taking a piece of cheese and a slice of ham and wrapping the latter around the former before popping the entire enterprise into his mouth. He's got enough manners not to talk with his mouth full, but he does shake his head a little at her question before finishing up and swallowing. "Nah. Mostly I used firearms, guns, which are a whole different project and it's probably best if no one ever figures out how to make 'em here. I did defeat a man once with a spear broken in half but it didn't stick so I dunno if that counts." But full spears take too long to use, and leave you too vulnerable to attack while you're stabbing and jabbing. So he's thinking the swords will be best.
"Never designed one of these before. Do y'all make your own staves or do you get 'em already made and shit?" By 'ya'll' he means magic users, like her.
The mention of firearms, guns, mostly passes her by. Derrica understands it to be a weapon, but it's unfamiliar. Her quizzical expression ebbs in the wake of a specific question, and she makes a thoughtful little moue before she answers.
"We have smiths who specialize in crafting them."
Today, her staff is back in her room behind a locked door. Some mages carry them everywhere; Derrica doesn't.
"I don't know the exact...mechanics of it," Derrica says, snagging a slice of cheese from the plate. "But we're all particular about them. And some materials are better than others, depending on the type of magic you have an affinity for."
Not so different than what he's mentioning. Weapons that suit a particular purpose, a particular style of fighting. Staves aren't so different.
"Do you want it to do something special? Your sword?"
"You mean like magic shit? I ain't decided, honestly. It makes sense, 'cuz the option exists, but I feel like... there's too many options, yanno?" He shrugs a little bit, picking up another bit of food. "I can't settle on what I wanna do, if I wanna do anything special. Fire? Lightnin'? Ice? Fuckin'..." He sorts through his notes. "Runes, the fuck are those really?"
He doesn't know what would be ideal, though the concept of setting someone on fire with his sword is... appealing, to say the least.
"You'd have to ask someone in Research," Derrica jokes. Maybe she should know. Maybe it would be a help to her, if someone put runes along her staff.
She'll ask Marcus. Eventually.
"Do you want to know what I would suggest for you?" she asks, a self-conscious note coloring the words. This is far from her area of expertise, and even what she knows is secondhand, what she's seen others benefit from. But still, why not share it with him?
"Hm." Erik nods along. "I'll find someone." Not Stark, he thinks, but someone else. He'll have to check the rolls and see who might be available to consult him on the matter.
He knows fewer people here than he'd have anticipated, but that's alright. He's got time, ain't he?
He raises his eyebrows at her query, smiling in a way that he hopes goes towards helping her not feel self-conscious about it. What's he gonna do, tell her that the magic that's been around her for her entire life isn't enough knowledge to help him out? Unlikely.
A brief pause while Derrica uncurls slightly, readjusting her seat on the bench while she lifts a few slices of meat and cheese to fold into the bread in her hand.
"See if you can find someone who can put a corrupting rune on your weapon," she offers, a little apologetic smile slipping onto her face. "I know how it sounds, but it's effective against the types of things we usually end up fighting on missions."
And all the other runes she knew of were so specialized as to be useless to him. If he were planning on spending the coin, he should have something that benefits him almost every time.
"I think they're only useless against darkspawn, but fighting darkspawn..."
Her hand wobbles in the air, expression turning to a mock-grimace.
"A corrupting rune, huh?" He jots that down, underlining it a few times. "And darkspawn are already corrupted, right? WHich is why it doesn't work on them." There's a logic to all this shit, he just has to puzzle it out. Which isn't impossible, it just feels very... well. More comic-book-y than his life had managed to thus far, and that's saying quite a bit.
"Isn't that what the Wardens are for anyway, fighting darkspawn? Is that something we usually gotta deal with?"
"Not always. Sometimes you don't really have a choice, when you come across them like we did in Ghislain last summer."
But rather than let that shift them into a more pessimistic course, Derrica pokes his elbow lightly and points out with a teasing smile, "If you make yourself two matched swords, you could have one corrupting rune and one cleansing rune. You're be prepared for anything."
"Oh damn." He grins at her. There's a burst of more writing; he'll need to look up how the weapon is shaped with a rune in it, does that change anything?
But maybe he should stop trying to do the job of whoever is going to build the thing for him first. The weapons will be what they will be; it'll be his task to get good at using them. "That's not a bad idea. Cleansing runes work on, like, spirits and alladat right?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
made up of future foe scenarios; the gallows, erik, open
He's also decided to start discussing the eventual built of a weapon with the blacksmith, so there's even more reading on that subject. Sketches of weapons and diagrams join his other writings, though these aren't always taken in the library but sometimes in the forge itself, or in the herb garden.
Not to forget, there's always the communal baths, mealtimes, or Erik going through drills in the courtyard as opportunities to run into him.
no subject
Dick Dickerson is one such creature: spindly-legged in a great, black-furred cloak, secreting in with an armload of overdue books and a lantern to return them by. He pauses after he enters -- at the sight of another light, or at the scuff of ink on paper -- but proceeds undeterred.
The books are too heavy and stacked too messily to carry all the way back. He deposits them on a table in a slanting cascade, swearing (quietly) in a language familiar only to the snake who slides out of the mix like an eel out of a crab trap.
no subject
Though the books threatening to hit the floor get Erik to his feet quickly, double-taking at the little snake that appears but still managing to grab several books with his arms before using his body to steady the rest of the pile back onto the table.
"Damn, man." How many books did he borrow at a time to come up with a pile like this? "Your cat and your snake get along?"
no subject
He looks quite a bit healthier than he did on the floor of that shack in the swamp, orderly, in spite of the rugged heap of his cloak, and clean. Still poorly-rested, but the damage here isn’t written in as deep -- the difference between a fresh-captured street cur and a terrier who’s spent a few days outside unexpectedly.
He also stinks like he’s been drinking.
“Mister Stevens.”
...Isn’t an answer. He tops off the pile with the one book he’d managed to catch on his own, exchanging it for the snake in question.
“They haven’t met.”
no subject
Well. A lot of people aren't, by his measure, and most of them didn't even fill out the survey he and Wisteria worked on. "If you told me your real last name it got lost in the shuffle, sorry."
no subject
He is here to return these books -- the quickest way to escape a potentially awkward conversation is to complete that task as efficiently as possible. So he begins, reasonably, by separating tomes off the top of the pile into smaller stacks by subject matter.
“Silas Atheris.”
Appropriately alliterative, for a villain.
“How are you settling in?”
no subject
Better than Tony calling him 'Steven', at the very least.
"Having an easier time of it than some people, I'd gather. Would ask if you're doing okay, but..." But he's clearly doing something, and okay is not what Erik would call it. "How long you been here, in Thedas?"
no subject
He doesn’t elaborate, and he definitely doesn’t acknowledge the suggestion that he is anything but fine.
There is a stack of books on mages, and one on demons, and one on abominations -- none of them particularly tall. Only so much scientific material is available to the layman in a library like this, and the majority of what he’d borrowed is random, covering everything from dracolisks to religious tradition.
“I’ve been here for a year and a half.”
no subject
There's an interesting spread of books between them, now that Silas has started organizing them. Erik recognizes the titles on religious traditions and mages, at least, and most of the rest he can sort out based on what he's stacked together.
"Damn." That's a while. Erik scratches at his chin and the beard that is getting a little unruly there. "Did you have the dream the first time it happened too?"
no subject
“The episode during the previous Wintersend?”
That’s the only dream incident that comes to mind for him, after a longer pause for thought, two books in hand. The little grass snake at his collar has slipped almost entirely out of sight beneath it.
“It consisted of a smaller series of incidents that spanned a month or two. I was only very tangentially affected.”
no subject
He dos miss the dog from the dream though. That mabari was pretty fucking cool. Erik picks up a book and scans the shelves before he finds another title by the same author. Does this go here? About to find out.
"I don't know when or what, just that it happened last year. Sister Sawbones told me about it." She'd been pressed as a starched shirt about it too, by his recall, but he'd been worried about brain trauma at the time and hadn't thought much of it.
no subject
There’s a blip of uncertainty to him catching it out of the corner of his eye -- a hitch in the process of him shoving one of his own books back up into place. It’s probably fine. Richard is just rotten enough not to trouble himself with checking.
Erik was in here first. Surely he knows what he’s doing.
“Dwarves are naturally incapable of dreaming,” he explains, as he follows it up with book #2. Between them, they’re making quick work of it. “These events tend to be especially unsettling for them.”
no subject
He presumes librarians are used to that kinda thing, even here.
"Yeah, she mentioned that," it's just real fucking weird, imagining an entire race of people who can't dream. Literally. How do their brains process their shit, he wonders? Be fascinating to see a dwarven brain in a CT scan, but he knows that's not about to happen. "What about where you're from? Prophetic dreams a thing there?"
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
All the diagrams are difficult for her to parse at a glance, but they seem like something complex. Erik might very well ask her to leave him be; she hadn't fully taken in the papers he was looking over before she'd invited herself into his space, but they seem the type to require undivided attention.
no subject
He lifts his eyebrows in the facial equivalent of another shrug. "What's got you up so late?" Also is she gonna share her food because he's eyeing it.
no subject
"Don't tell Mhavos I brought food in here," is the condition, even though Derrica isn't sure whether or not it's officially banned or just strongly implied. She curls her fingers around the sides of the mug, looking again at the diagrams. "Is that what you used at home? A sword?"
Though considering the lingering unease left in the wake of the dream, it isn't any wonder people are moving to do...anything that might be of use. To Derrica, the sword might be a better investment than a survey, but she isn't a scientist, or a martial fighter. Her consideration is limited.
no subject
"Never designed one of these before. Do y'all make your own staves or do you get 'em already made and shit?" By 'ya'll' he means magic users, like her.
no subject
"We have smiths who specialize in crafting them."
Today, her staff is back in her room behind a locked door. Some mages carry them everywhere; Derrica doesn't.
"I don't know the exact...mechanics of it," Derrica says, snagging a slice of cheese from the plate. "But we're all particular about them. And some materials are better than others, depending on the type of magic you have an affinity for."
Not so different than what he's mentioning. Weapons that suit a particular purpose, a particular style of fighting. Staves aren't so different.
"Do you want it to do something special? Your sword?"
no subject
He doesn't know what would be ideal, though the concept of setting someone on fire with his sword is... appealing, to say the least.
no subject
She'll ask Marcus. Eventually.
"Do you want to know what I would suggest for you?" she asks, a self-conscious note coloring the words. This is far from her area of expertise, and even what she knows is secondhand, what she's seen others benefit from. But still, why not share it with him?
no subject
He knows fewer people here than he'd have anticipated, but that's alright. He's got time, ain't he?
He raises his eyebrows at her query, smiling in a way that he hopes goes towards helping her not feel self-conscious about it. What's he gonna do, tell her that the magic that's been around her for her entire life isn't enough knowledge to help him out? Unlikely.
"Yeah, I'm down for all suggestions."
no subject
"See if you can find someone who can put a corrupting rune on your weapon," she offers, a little apologetic smile slipping onto her face. "I know how it sounds, but it's effective against the types of things we usually end up fighting on missions."
And all the other runes she knew of were so specialized as to be useless to him. If he were planning on spending the coin, he should have something that benefits him almost every time.
"I think they're only useless against darkspawn, but fighting darkspawn..."
Her hand wobbles in the air, expression turning to a mock-grimace.
no subject
"Isn't that what the Wardens are for anyway, fighting darkspawn? Is that something we usually gotta deal with?"
no subject
But rather than let that shift them into a more pessimistic course, Derrica pokes his elbow lightly and points out with a teasing smile, "If you make yourself two matched swords, you could have one corrupting rune and one cleansing rune. You're be prepared for anything."
no subject
But maybe he should stop trying to do the job of whoever is going to build the thing for him first. The weapons will be what they will be; it'll be his task to get good at using them. "That's not a bad idea. Cleansing runes work on, like, spirits and alladat right?"