faderift | OPEN - But here I dreamt I was an architect

The party is glittering around him, but it doesn't matter. The man whose arms he is whirling around the dancefloor in is so much more radiant, twinkling white eyes looking right back at him as if he's the only thing that matters. He's so content, so full of love in this moment...and when the song ends, the both of them are breathless, smiling, laughing.

He turns to take up a fine crystal glass, ladling it from the bowl...but pauses after the first ladle. The viscosity of the liquid when he pulls it up doesn't match what he pours into the glass. The room around him seems to go still as he pours and pours, until the glass is full and he's lifting it to inspect it, smell what's inside.

Blood.

All at once, he realizes the sounds of the party are all gone, replaced by...thunderous crackling. He turns, ornate white robes billowing around him, and his eyes go wide as he sees he is now in his lab, Orion there in front of him, reaching out for him with a containment breach welling up behind. Before the high elf can react, before he can go to him, a bolt from one of his arcane conduits arcs free, catching his still-smiling lover in the back. He's frozen in place, boots stuck to the thick glass floor as he watches his beautiful, perfect tiefling erupt from within with vibrant pink crystal until his body is little more than a crude statue. He shatters, the pieces of him spraying sharply against Diabhall's white robes, his face, his hair, in his mouth as he screams - the floor beneath him shatters, and he's falling -

But the impact is solid, even as he snaps awake. The mossy ground of a forest clearing surrounds him, wind ripping through the trees. Incapable of panic, he still stares up in pure confusion at the crackling green Rift flashing overhead. Reflexively, the fingers of his left hand grip tighter around something solid - turning his head to look down, he sees the shards of pink crystal on his white sleeves, sees...a punch glass, filled with thick, coagulating blood. Through the blood, something shines stinging in his palm, casting a ghastly green light into the liquid.

The sound of inhuman screeching shakes his wits back into him, and he tosses the glass aside into a bed of moss, scrambling up onto his knees. A many-mawed visage of pure despair is descending from that tear in reality, flanked by a small group of smaller Wraiths. Diabhall feels something in his chest hitch - must be from the impact - and before even trying to get his feet under him, he attempts to summon his staff.

It doesn't come. He can't feel his patron, and self-preservation coaxes him all the way up, casting a glance around, trying to determine where to run, what to use to defend himself -

All the while trying to ignore the bits of pink crystal littering his body.

"As ucht Dé - where am I-?"

When unsure, Diabhall always, always has research. This holds in this strange place as well, and fortunately for him, there is more than enough for him to read. When he isn't having things explained to him, he spends hours on end in the library, surrounded by stacks of books on all manner of world topics.

At the moment, he's reading about biology - in specific, the biology of elves here in Thedas. His brows are furrowed in concentration as he takes notes in a little book, the lettering not in any script native to this land. Knowing that his lifespan is going to be considerably shorter is certainly pertinent information, even if his vanity and lack of fear wants to make his shorter ears feel like a bigger issue.

Closing this book, he looks at the ones before him before picking another about mining and masonry, losing the world around him as he sinks his attention into the pages.

"Acquainting yourself with the world, are you?"

Absorbed in the pages as he is, the voice may well come as a surprise-- its source is a tall man who just shifts to perch casually on the edge of whichever desk or table Diabhall's using at the moment, one gloved hand splayed on its surface to support himself.

"That, or you're very accomplished at sneaking about. I am certain I've not seen you here before."

The voice is a surprise - but the elf doesn't jump, merely flicking his vibrant gaze up to the stranger. His expression is stoic, voice smooth and placid when he replies.

"I am, yes. Finding the similarities and the differences." Gesturing with his left hand, anchor shard glowing away within the pale skin, he indicates a nearby chair, should the man wish to join him.

"It's the latter. I only just arrived here. Working to get my bearings."

Not very easily startled, evidently. He doesn't entirely disapprove-- but he does wave off that gesture. No thanks, he's fine where he is; he's comfortable enough here, in fact, to pick up one of the books that's not currently in use to take a look at it, skimming through as he remains perched on the table and speaking without actually looking back up.

"Well, the good news is that you will have plenty of time in which to do so... which is, I suppose, also the bad news for some." He shrugs his shoulders at that. Clearly not a concern for him, personally. "So long as you do not balk at the differences you find, you ought to have little enough trouble with the place itself-- but that's the easy part."

Edited 2021-09-15 08:59 (UTC)

That only gets a shrug - do as you will - face unchanged as the other Rifter flips through a book and muses aloud. If he didn't know any better, he would think this fellow is trying to alarm him. Barking up the wrong tree, there, if so.

"Quite the contrary, I'm taking it as a challenge." His tone is chilly, but not pointed. Simply unmoved. "But clearly you have something more to say. What do you believe to be the hard part, then?"

"The adjustment to the situation as a whole, of course. Being somehow torn from whence you came, finding yourself here in the first place-- which you do seem to be taking remarkably in stride."

He glances back up, there, a brow slightly arched, taking in that impassive face. A curious thing, but not a completely unfamiliar one, either.

"Ah. Is that all?"

A placid blink - he marks his book, shutting it in a gesture of respect for the conversation. He's full of these little habits, ways to compensate for the unnatural composure that has a hold of him.

"To be frank, planar travel isn't completely alien to me. This situation is peculiar, I will grant, but I have grown up on stories of people being spirited away to other realms anyhow. For it to happen to me is unexpected, but...I don't mind being divorced from the burdens of my previous reputation."

"There is quite the difference between open travel betwixt planes, worlds, what have you, and a matter such as this. I suppose it must have been quite the reputation, then, for this to come as something of a reprieve..."

All as casual as his tone has been this entire time, despite the topic. It's all hardly alien to Emet-Selch, either, and after a moment or two he adds:

"But neither are you the only one I've spoken with to say so."

"Who's to say I meant open travel? The Fae are quick to take a life and never return it." Rolling his shoulders to stretch them, he simply observes the other man as he speaks. He wonders if there is a point to any of this, or an intended introduction attached to the interruption of his study.

But if he's even mildly put off, it certainly doesn't reflect in his face.

"Indeed it was. Expectation since the day I was born, a high-profile name, a high-profile career I gained - if the population is to be believed - through privilege...this is an opportunity to come by it once more on my own merits alone."

He nods at the second part of the man's words.

"Precisely. I am nothing special. I am certain others have come from worse, and still others from better."

There's a faint, thoughtful hum at those last words. Truly nothing special, he wonders, or simply desirous of being seen as such-- or, well, there's always the possibility of a regular lack of esteem. Maybe just a purely pragmatic way of seeing things. He doesn't make any overt guesses at it, though, his tone almost idle as he says, "Then I expect it will be something different, to have fewer eyes upon you. Such are the burdens of that sort of life; ever being observed, ever aware of the possible consequences from it."

But while they're on the subject:

"Now, if you wouldn't mind sharing just what that name is...? Unless you've no intent to use it here, in which case we will still have to have something to call you by."

"Indeed. If I am watched here, it is likely out of suspicion or novelty."

As he is questioned, he hums a little affirmation, as if realizing his lapse of manners. Gracefully, he sticks out a hand, though he half expects this man not to accept it. Either way, the courtesy has been extended.

"Forgive me. I have been processing quite a bit of information in very little time.

Diabhall Minett. And yours?"

He does accept that offered hand, in fact. "Consider yourself forgiven," he says as he takes it, seemingly ignoring the fact that he's the one who struck up this conversation without an introduction to begin with.

"Emet-Selch. Research. I have not been here too much longer, but enough to know more or less which way is up or down."

It is not the first time Diabhall has dealt with someone opting to absolve themselves of the thing that they themselves chose to do. Ah, well.

"Research? Well, I look forward to working with you, then. Or at least, I will, once I have been absolved of quarantine." It's a natural fit, really. He folds his hands on the table in front of him once the handshaking is done.

"Do you have a specialization, Mister Emet-Selch?"

"Oh, one or two."

That comes with an idle wave of one hand, before he continues: "Under normal circumstances, creation magic, though it is something of a work in progress here. Lost forms of magic in general, corruptive magical influences, history, sorcery, artifacts and construction... if you are in need of additional eyes to inspect something magical in nature, you could certainly do worse than to ask me, though much of my specialization is still best applied to my own home's form of magical theory."

Calmly, the elf nods his way through all of this, taking mental notes of what to call upon this man for in the future - although something does catch his attention more than the rest, and he tilts his head lightly to one side.

"Construction?"

One hand gestures faintly at the stack of books on materials. "I am actually an architect by trade, with emphasis in enchanting materials and structures. It sounds as though some of our work may overlap."

"Is that so...? Then you may well be correct. I've seen my share of magical structures created, in my time."

That earns Diabhall a bit more interest, a little more focus.

"I've little interest in working on them, mind you. Too much physical labor by far. But when it comes to theory and design, I do consider myself to have some expertise in the matter."

Admittedly, Diabhall has a moment where he questions the other man's age...but then, he himself is older than he looks. It's irrelevant.

"I dabble a bit in both. Primarily the design, theory, and enchantment, but on occasion when I have had the time, I have periodically found reward in rolling up my own sleeves." Still, no judgement if Emet prefers to keep clean. He understands.

"It is good to know who I might turn towards for a second set of trained eyes."

Honestly, it's always valid to question Emet-Selch-- he shrugs at that answer, though.

"I will leave that particular sort of reward to your capable hands, then," he answers in turn. "But if you've a need for my opinion in the future, you may have it."

Emet-Selch is, so far in the elf's view, another in a very long line of arrogant 'artistes' in his field, ready to delegate and boast, but last in line to touch a brick. It isn't to say that people like those have work that is lesser in any way...it's just that the relative lack of field experience tends to make them blow more smoke than they do make fire.

Still, he is polite when he nods, expression remaining as neutral as ever.

"I appreciate that. Perhaps I can return the favor."

In the very early mornings, while the Gallows are relatively peaceful, the newly-minted Rifter opts to spend his time studying something other than books. He can be seen all over the compound, staring into dusty rafters and running his fingers over stone and wood. Occasionally he stops to open a little sketchbook, replicating what he sees in sharpened charcoal.

It's plain that he is inspecting the building itself, but with more than passing curiosity. Perhaps you find him walking the halls, or the baths, or perhaps in the dining hall, early for breakfast - wherever you find him, you are certain to see him tracing the very contours of the room with a graceful hand and a sharp, attentive red-pink stare.

If you approach, he does not notice you yet - lost in his own work (and, perhaps, his own self-distraction.)

Not in the habit of nosing around newcomers' business, Fifi-- a short elf woman dressed in a maids' uniform, carrying a basket filled with rags and bottles of cleaning solution-- nonetheless has to cast a second glance when passing the second white-haired, red-eyed, sharded newcomer she's seen in recent days. He lacks the pomposity that marks Astarion, and it's admittedly with some trepidation that she pauses, glancing him over.

"Are you lost, messere?"

A half-grown but already very large puppy trots at her heels, pricking her ears toward the stranger with a tail loosely wagging.

Edited 2021-09-18 01:29 (UTC)

When addressed, Diabhall turns to face her, expression placid despite the interruption. The little sketchbook is still held open in one hand, sketches of the current room half-finished and notated.

"No, Miss," he replies, voice polite, if a little monotone. "I'm only studying. I hope I'm not in your way?"

Perhaps not pompous, but there is something very proud in the straightness of his back and the lift of his chin. At least he isn't skittish, that much is certain - the focus he had been applying to his work was deep, and many would have perhaps jumped.

He looks down to the pup, lifting a brow, before returning his attention to her owner.

Though her eyes flit to the notebook, nothing on Fifi's face registers that she's absorbed its contents-- she spends her whole day around people and their various documents, one can hardly pay attention to them all.

"I see. No, you're not," she replies, finding his affect a little strange, though she's hardly skittish herself. The puppy sniffs the air in his direction, alert and cheerful, but is well-behaved enough not to come bounding over.

Shutting the book for the moment, he moves to give her his full attention, expression still as stone. He can tell from her effects that she is some stripe of servant, but...he wants to respect her. Hard enough to be an elf in this place, after all.

"Good. I may not be lost, but I don't mean to be somewhere the powers that be would prefer I do not go."

He stoops down slightly, holding a hand out towards the puppy, inviting approach. His face remains unmoved. "I'm still quite new here. It's only been a few days."

"I am hardly the powers that be," Fifi replies, his expressionlessness putting her somewhat on edge-- but the puppy still seems fairly relaxed, even curious as she steps forward to sniff his hand, so there's no need to make a hasty departure just yet.

"But I welcome you. Are you new to Thedas, messere?" Being an elf doesn't preclude him having been upper class in some other world.

"I try not to assume, Miss."

Despite his stoicism, his graceful hand slides further forward to scratch the puppy behind the ears, gentle and sweet.

"Thank you for the welcome. Yes - only a few days, now. They found me in the woods. I was fortunate, and I am grateful to be given a place to stay." Finished with the puppy, he stands straight again, bending himself into a little bow.

"Diabhall Minett."

If Sati trusts him, he can't be too bad. The puppy immediately takes the opportunity to snuffle into his hand, her entire body wiggling with the motion of her tail, but Fifi clicks her tongue to call her back before she can become a nuisance.

"Josephine Mariette," she replies, with a little curtsy, "I hope you find your stay comfortable."

Despite all his strangeness and stoicism, Diabhall is actually not a particularly cruel or dangerous man. Some people once may have said so, but that reputation is one he is happy to leave behind in Eidekey.

"A pleasure, Miss Mariette," he purrs in his low monotone. "I have certainly done so so far. Might I actually trouble you for just a moment with a question or two about the premises? If you can spare the time."

"Madame," she corrects him gently, quietly. She was married once, even if no longer.

"It's no trouble at all."

"I beg your pardon. Madame."

The correction is polite and concise - he doesn't make much of it. Well-mannered.

"Wonderful. Is there anything about the structure itself that you believe needs repair or work?"

She nods lightly, moving past it. Titles aren't all that important anyway, at least when one isn't of the upper class.

At his question, Fifi pauses to think, glancing about. Then, "I wouldn't know, messere. But perhaps you might reach out to Seneschal Black. I believe the Gallows facilities are under his supervision."

"Ah - Seneschal Black. That is extremely helpful, thank you."

His red-pink gaze dips briefly down as he flicks his book back open, making a note in an unfamiliar script upon the page - right next to a sketch of the very hall the both of them are currently standing in.

"You're welcome, Messere."

Her eyes flit down to the page, but she refrains from commenting as she simply curtsies once more.
"I must see to my duties," she says instead, and clicks her tongue to the puppy.
Sati comes to heel, looking up at her attentively as they make their departure.

"Of course. Good day."

Calmly, he lets her go with a little bow of his head.

Helpful, he thinks to himself as he returns to sketching the hallway.

OPEN - But here I dreamt I was an architect

Arrival - Planasene Forest

Quarantine - Library

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Quarantine - Wandering the Gallows Grounds

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