faderift | [closed]

There is a field in the foothills above Kirkwall which doubles for a fine enough shooting range. It had also been a perfectly adequate picnicking ground almost two years prior, though Maker forbid any suggestion that the location was selected for reasons of sentimentality. Besides, any such nonsense has faded considerably in light of the manual labor required to set up a few targets for practice. They'd borrowed three sparring dummies from the training yards, and the donkey in charge of pulling the wagon along had decided to be quite stubborn about plodding around the field to drop them at intervals. It had only stopped heeing and hawwing in complaint when it had been at last been unharnessed from the wagon and picketed with a long enough line for grazing on the stubby late summer grass.

Now, sweating in the heat and the sun and the humidity down range from the practice dummies, Wysteria is has wrestled the oil cloth covering from the great long gun. It is by no means a sleek weapon. it is however clearly lovingly made, a lovely masculine kind of beauty in the pale polished oak of the stock and all its dark iron fittings.

"—I have already begun the mocking up of a second iteration which will solve a great deal of the difficulties I noted in my field report. My concern is of course with the weight balance. I believe the spindle—here; that is what I've decided to name the enchanting element—requires additional insulation, and you will see now when you handle the thing how reasonably well balanced it is. The support crutch—here you are, Mister Stark—" she says, passing the long gun's accompany balancing fork up to him. "—Somewhat diminishes the necessity to keep the weapon entirely light in the hand, but balance. Now I should think that quite important."

Up comes the great gun, balanced upright on its stock butt plate so Wysteria might begin to load its heavy cast round.

"Which reminds me." Ting, ting; she jams the round down the long barrel with a few robust jams of the loading rod. "Do you suppose you will you be competing in the tournament, Mister Stark?"

It's so sick that it's annoying. The gun, that is.

It's also hilariously gawky with its little supporting tripod situation and its size, but also just plainly rad, especially after two years of medieval aesthetic every way you turn. Tony sets up the fork, staking it into the summer-soft earth, folding out the limbs, a knee in the dirt. He squints towards where they'd set up the dummies—he really need to improve Fred's speed so he can haul him out for this kind of task, but all those stairs are a nightmare—through the same sunglasses that had come through the rift with him, not so far from here.

"I mean, do you go to Vegas and skip the magic show?" is his rhetorical answer, and before she can remind him that she does not know what Vegas is, he says, "Joust, and the other thing that's like tee-ball joust. I can't get stuck in medieval times and not joust."

"I've heard it's rather dangerous. But I suppose if something terrible were to happen, Riftwatch is now staffed well enough to oversee a substitute without much incident. Have you prepared a list of recommendations for the position?"

She smiles at him with all due beneficence—ha ha ha, she's very funny—as the shot clicks into place and retrieves the loading rod with a rasp of metal on metal.

With a great heave, Wysteria hauls the long gun up under her arm. It is not so heavy, but the dimensions are awkward when held parallel to the ground and so it is a relief to shift the stock into its appropriate place in the waiting balancing fork.

"I believe I will add a small block here to keep the arm from slipping too far forward in the fork," she remarks in the tone of making a note aloud, and then takes a half step back with her hands still supporting the stock. It's a clear offering. Would you like to take the first go?

(She's shot the thing a dozen times now; first is relative.)

"You should probably just shut down the Division," Tony says, after a fleeting half-smile for her joke. Of course he has to come in with his own. "It'd be too sad to continue."

He stands in place as she sets up, not inclined to help when, you know, she's got this. It's August, which is the kind of fact he tries not to think about too closely. If he was on earth, he'd have shifted operations back to Malibu for the summer, and the weather would be perfect. Kirkwall has a way of ruining a good thing, too wet all the time, the sewers somehow even riper than usual, the way the ocean smells like dying marine life.

Being out here is nicer, at least. Pleasantly pastoral. He looks around all the rolling hills and the absence of power lines, planes in the sky, signage.

"You go ahead," he says, with a gallant hand gesture, focus drawn back to the offer. "I like to watch, and then do a better job. How's the recoil on this thing?"

She shifts back into place smoothly enough that perhaps it is, at least in part, the answer she'd been expecting.

"It is not not a factor, but I have fired worse for a smaller round." The long gun is set to her shoulder; the dial on its side os tuned; the runelock is ratcheted unceremoniously back. Click. "So long as you don't resist the force, there should be no issue."

Undoubtedly Tony has witnessed Wysteria's chaotic attempts with a bow. This is a different thing; there is something suspiciously like competence is how she squints along the length of the gun, lines up its sights and—

"Will Miss Smythe come to watch, do you suppose?" She lifts her face away and turns it back to him. "The tournament, I mean."

He moves around, hands in pockets, watching her set up and line up. Internal notes append to observation as he focuses mainly on mechanism and her handling than carrying out a conversation, so when she says that, his expression is blank, a little like some corner of his brain has misfired and shut down.

Smooth recovery on a delay with, "Everyone's gonna come. It's a big whole deal, with these people." Of which Miss Smythe is clearly one. Of these people. Just a face in the crowd, obviously.

He adjusts his glasses. "Why, do you think she won't? Come to the tournament."

From behind the primed gun, her finger set on the trigger guard, Wysteria gives him a bald look of assessment.

"I suppose you would have to ask her to be certain of her intentions." She perks up by a degree. A spark glints somewhere in her canny blue eye. "Would you like me to ask her on your behalf?"

There's a pause, and Wysteria will just have to guess at Tony narrowing his eyes at her behind the opaque lenses of his glasses. Like maybe there is something tempting about this offer if not for the fact it feels a little like sending a fox to fetch a chicken. (Wow, his metaphors are getting mega provincial, gotta watch that.)

"Cut you a deal—I worry about Miss Smythe's intentions, and you take your shot."

"Very well," is the prim reply as she reasserts the angle of the gun on its balancing fork. It is a relatively simple thing to realign the sights onto the practice dummy stationed far afield. "Though you may need to concern yourself with Enchanter Isaac's intentions well."

CRACK! The discharge of the gun is like the too-close percussive snap of lighting, flash and all. The shot itself clips the dummy with a pop of elelental fire, plowing past it to scour a flame licked channel into the sod beyond it.

"Oh—! Damn! That was entirely user error, I assure you."

"...w—"

CRACK!

And Tony pivots to observe the damage, tipping his glasses off his face as he squints to spy the flicker of fire carving through countryside that wasn't asking for it. Her assurance feels right, familiar—better to be a bad shot than build a bad weapon. He hooks his glasses in his tunic collar as he moves on over, hands out like: may I?

"Smoothbore's gonna compromise the accuracy now matter how awesome you are," he says. "Rifling will make it a pain in the ass to reload but, A, it already is, and B, you'll get a lot more range and control. I could take Enchanter Isaac," is added in the same tone as his speculative once over of the gun.

Does this thing tip? Tony goes ahead and starts the Process that is reloading.

Edited 2021-08-31 13:23 (UTC)

"By surprise, perhaps. Enchanter Isaac is an accomplished Circle mage, Mister Stark."

She assumes; has she actually witnessed Isaac doing much magic in the field? Certainly she has trudged along in similar rank and file with him. But surely a first hand account of the thing makes very little difference. All Thedas mages are meant to be at least a little dangerous, aren't they?

"It's much more economical to produce a smoothbore. But if Riftwatch were to formally fund such a modification—"

(She only corrects him on the order of operations for reloading twice, and it is only truly necessary the once.)

Tony moves into the position Wysteria had taken once ready. "We're doing some refinancing," he says, all casual, considering the spindle. "Budgetary overhaul especially in favour of means of city defense, and weapons that'll get at a dragon, which,"

This may or may not be the weapon for that. Range will outstrip any crossbowman, elemental damages have more potential, but it'd take some optimal circumstances to really make the most out of it, accounting for elevation, wind, the sheer agility of way too much lizard monster—

—well, all that can be addressed.

"you know," he says instead of launching into that ramble, while his focus is elsewhere. "We're shopping for investors. Got a lead in Markham."

Tony sets the spindle to a familiar rune, and takes aim at same guy that got nicked by Wysteria's shot.

CRACK!

It's not a bullseye, but the target's still hit fair and square. A nest of electricity flashes originating from the puncture of the round blooms, and dies, and reforms, setting burlap and hay alight as the spell is spent. Tony's head pops up with meerkat energy to watch the lightshow.

After the last spark has died, he pronounces it, "Diabolical," with a glance tipped to her.

It is, isn't it? De Foncé had said something similar, deeming it fantastically destructive. While that is not strictly the ruler by which she might measure success for most work, in this particular case it does seem rather appropriate, yes?

"This rune," she says, pointing to one squiggly mark amidst a collection of them. "Effects paralysis in the target. I included it with the thought that we might at some point require slowing down some variety of beast that might not be slain with a single shot."

She will not says she had designed it specifically for dragons, as she suspects Valentine would find such a prospect rather gruesome and she has her doubts that the arcane enchantment would truly be so effective on a creature of such scale (not a single shot, in any case), but horses and dracolisks and other great things which one might ride along on—

She looks to Tony.

"What manner of lead?"

"You'll have to ask Princess Peach."

By which he means, "Madame de Cedoux," as he goes to line up another shot. "Don't tell her I called her that."

Testing out the paralysis rune is desired, but not gonna work on inanimate objects. He's thinking about it anyway as he says, "She's been pulling in some interest on Research's behalf, got the number of a local engineer in war machines for dragon murder. But we just need their money, not their ideas. Staff meeting," he explains, in aside. "Extremely productive.

"Scoutmaster wanted to know how viable this baby would be."

If there is a line of inquiry she means to chase pertaining to the subject of war machines, or perhaps some remarks she might make with respect to Markahm—'You know, Mister Stark, I have a friend or two within the University there who might be of service to Madame de Cedoux—'then they die on her tongue as Wysteria's jaw clamps shut in reply to this last item. She stands a little straighter. A flush of color begins to tinge the back of her neck.

It is not the color of embarrassment.

"I see. I suppose this is to be your assessment of the thing for your remarks back to her then?" is all very cool and collected. She ought to leave it there. Instead— "I've a letter of attestation from Mister Ellis. And de Foncé—Valentine, I mean, intends to draw up an article. And I have inquired already with Mister Holden whether he would be willing to take part in conducting a field study. Even if it isn't precisely as effective as one might wish under such extreme circumstances, the design and concept are still perfectly legitimate."

"Who, me? I just wanted to shoot some stuff."

CRACK! The fire round punctures the next target, not an ideal placement but enough for flame to blossom and burn. This time, Tony allows himself a laugh—a cackle, really, usually the sort of delight he reserves for his own inventions—and then steps back, holding the gun by the stock for her to take back.

He flips his sunglasses back down over his eyes. "Mister Holden should consider field testing it out on something big. Dragon shaped, ideally. See how the paralysis takes. I can make some inquiries. And then we need someone, someones, trained in shooting. You look like you know what you're doing," he adds, a sudden swivel of focus from a still burning target, to her. "Think you can teach it?"

She has thoughts with respect to the gamut of testing Mister Holden ought to run the long gun through, and she has at least one very strong opinion to express with respect to Tony Stark's motivations this afternoon—just shooting stuff, indeed—, but all of them seemingly melt away in the face of this suggestion.

Wysteria pales faintly. And then as if to make up for her own balking flushes pink up through her neck and into her ears, frowning either at herself or the prospect of conducting training or both.

"I can't say that I have ever had reason to be anyone's instructor before, no."

[closed]

tony

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