OPEN - You are broken and callow, cautious and safe

[loversinverted]

WHO: Diabhall and YOU
WHAT: Catch-all - what Diabhall has been up to throughout October. The first layer of the stone mask seems to be eroding....
WHEN: Backdated to span the month of October. What is time, anyway?
WHERE: The Gallows offices and dining hall, a tavern in Kirkwall, and wherever else anyone wants him!
NOTES: Will edit with content warnings as I go - thread starters below. Please let me know if you want something custom for one of your characters!

Starters below!

Comments

Working at the Gallows Offices - OPEN

[loversinverted]

As soon as Diabhall is assigned a desk and given tasks, you would be hard pressed not to find him with his nose in a book, fingers wrapped around quill or charcoal.

Day and night, from dawn until dusk and sometimes beyond, the stoic elf is writing, researching, drafting and drawing - ushering papers back and forth, transcribing, translating, duplicating...endlessly, endlessly toiling over this and that.

Maybe you catch him at his desk itself, or maybe going in and out of the library, but he has become a constant sort of fixture around the Research offices, always on task, scarcely looking up, hardly talking to anyone unless he must.

You would be forgiven for thinking he is overworking himself to avoid something, but plainly that cannot be the case. The dark circles, the occasional wobble where he sits, the fumbling to take books down from shelves...those are all simply because he is trying to sustain focus.

...Right?

[arkitect]

"Honestly," someone sighs out of seemingly nowhere, "much more of this and I will begin to think I should not be the only member of this division with eyes on them."

A gloved hand reaches out to steady the book Diabhall's nearly dropped while fetching it from the shelves-- and then just plucks it up. Emet-Selch casually examines the cover, but holds on to the tome for the moment, not bothering to hand it back over. "Are you even going to be capable of reading it right now, or will you be skimming the same pair of pages until something sinks in?"

[loversinverted]

It takes the usually-razor-sharp elf a moment to realize he is being spoken to - he turns to regard Emet-Selch with his customarily stony expression, but there is a faint edge to his tone not typically present. Irritation? No, couldn't be. Impatience, perhaps, but even that seems...peculiar, compared to how he has been since his arrival.

Of course, he had heard what was said about the man before him. How could he not have, being in the same division especially? But he does not flinch away, nor is his brusqueness related to any crimes in another time and place.

It is only because the man is holding the book he needs.

His opinions otherwise he keeps to himself, for now.

"I will be quite capable, thank you. And I'm not certain what you mean. There's hardly anything wrong with being devoted to the work, is there?"

But there is certainly something wrong with Diabhall himself, something he is refusing adamantly to acknowledge - eyes bloodshot so as to compete with the pink of his irises, dark circles obvious on his porcelain-pale skin.

[arkitect]

"Well, of course there is."

Said as if it's the most obvious answer, before he adds, "...whenever one takes it too far. The quality of the work suffers, further increases the time spent upon it to redo what was poorly done... a wasteful thing, really."

[loversinverted]

If Diabhall were capable of anger, he may have bristled at this. His pride in his work being called into question, his efficiency.

But he isn't capable of anger, of course. Any edge that had traced his words vanishes as quickly as it had come on, the hand outstretched to take the book from the other man dropping to his side.

He's just tired.

"...Am I so obviously doing that poorly?" Spoken like a man who knows the truth already.

[arkitect]

"To anyone with half a mind to pay attention-- which, in this division, could certainly go either way, but if you were counting on us all being too engrossed in our own work to notice... then I am afraid you are not so lucky."

A one-shouldered shrug accompanies that answer, and he glances down, looking through the book's pages himself. It's an idle effort, just something to occupy himself with.

"Don't tell me you aren't used to needing to maintain your own health. Or do-- I suppose it would be as good a reason as any other, if not a better one."

[loversinverted]

"No, truthfully, I was hardly trying to hide anything. It seems as though I'm falling into some old habits."

For a long moment, he does not respond to the latter half of what Emet has to say...but as he stands there, watching him flip pages, he heaves a low sigh. There is hesitance in his tone now. It makes his own voice sound alien to him, and he finds himself wanting to wince at it.

That's an issue of its own.

"I'm very used to it. Before I performed my emotional truncation ritual, I tended to bury myself in things to avoid...." Diabhall trails off, gaze wandering briefly away before landing back on the other man again.

"You can tell me no, if you would rather not sully your own mind with the concerns of another...but if you have a moment, perhaps talking it out a bit would help me organize my thoughts."

[arkitect]

Well. There's a little curiosity there, at least, so even if it's not particularly motivated by simple empathy (perhaps more by just wanting to make sure he doesn't have to deal with an unconscious, overworked person later)-- he eventually closes the book, looking back up.

"You might start," he says, a brow arched, "with what, precisely, you mean by emotional truncation."

[loversinverted]

"Ah. Yes."

Taking a moment to rub at his eyes, he turns fully towards Emet, drawing a deep breath before launching into an explanation that he's clearly given more than once.

"About two hundred years ago, I performed a ritual to remove all but the necessary traces of emotion from my person. Only enough left for self-preservation. Simply cut it all out at the root. I have lived that way for a very long time."

His brows knit just a little closer together.

For a man who doesn't feel, he looks...haunted.

Gallows Dining Hall - OPEN

[loversinverted]

Usually, Diabhall prefers to take his meals at odd hours. During those times, the dining hall is relatively empty, and he can very simply get in, eat, get out and back to his work. This time, he has ventured down during the apex of lunch hours - and at first, the bustle is little more than a nuisance to him. He moves to wade through the crowd with his usual preferred meal of simple bread, fruit, and cheese, head held high and expression blank.

Until someone comes a bit too close, knocking into his shoulder and surprising him. A knife clatters to the floor from his plate, and when he stoops to get it, he struggles to find a break in the flow of people, figures pressing in, looming, crushing on both sides -

Giving up on the knife, he stands, jaw clenched and breathing hard through his nose as he makes for the nearest empty place, unceremoniously dropping the plate onto the table and sinking into the seat.

All at once, he folds inwards upon himself, head lowering towards the table as he cradles it in both hands, covering his swiftly-reddening ears. The sounds of the bustle around him feel insurmountably loud now, head swimming - the eagle eyed might even catch a tremble wracking his slender shoulders.

He can’t comprehend what is happening to him, can’t quite pull himself together enough to logic through it...and so there he sits.

To the rest of the world, the panic attack is as plain as day.

[armd]

It is, and this isn't the first time Abby has seen somebody go to pieces in a mess hall either. She notices the abrupt withdrawal from everybody else for what it is and angles her footsteps toward where he sits without even thinking about it; this is something she has her own experiences with.

The stranger is tall and slender, and he curls in on himself like a pill bug as Abby takes the seat opposite him. He's shielding himself from the noise of the room, so Abby leans over the table, not to touch, but to gently catch his attention.

Once she has it, she'll point toward the double doors leading out, making as if to stand again. Her meaning could not be more clear: let's go.

[loversinverted]

Diabhall's heart is pounding hard in his ears, and for a long moment, he shuts his eyes tightly, trying to still himself, to control his breathing, to get a grip on SOMETHING - but it doesn't seem to be working. People must be staring. This must look dreadful. A new surge of fear pulses through him and makes him slit his eyes back open...and that's when he notices a stranger, looking at him with purpose.

For a moment, feeling his fears were coming true, he reels back a little...until he realizes that she is beckoning. She wants to help.

Swallowing hard, he nods once, pink eyes bright as he stands to follow. It's hard to breathe, and his knees shake beneath him; the food is abandoned without question.

[armd]

She can hear that cloying panic in his breaths, the air sticking in his chest when he tries to pull deep. Abby takes the lead without straying far, glancing once to check he's following okay on shivering legs. She guides him out of the hall, away from the noise and the clutter of people on all sides, and out.

As expected, it's much calmer out here. Quieter, as everybody else busies themselves with lunch, and outside in the cool air. Abby finds the two of them a spot off to the side where they won't be bothered, and there's a bench if he wishes to sit again, and curl up. It probably helps that the two of them are roughly the same height: means she doesn't accidentally tower over him while they're standing together, but she'll follow his lead.

"We're in the gardens," she explains, watching him. If he's in a haze, it might help to have something to concentrate on, "Can you smell the herbs?"

[loversinverted]

The cool air on his face as he follows out into the garden is an immediate relief - but still when the bench is near, he sinks onto it, grasping white-knuckled to the edge as he struggles to come back to himself. The relative quiet compared to the busy dining hall does much to soothe him, giving him the space to hear what the well-meaning young woman is saying to him.

He draws a long, rattling breath before speaking, tone vaguely accented and hoarse.

"Tá - yes. I can. I...."

A cough shakes him momentarily as his lungs catch up with him, and he wobbles a little where he sits. Still, his eyes are growing a little clearer, the red tint to the points of his ears and cheeks slowly subsiding.

"I can."

[armd]

"Good."

She sits too, not beside him, not far enough away that it might seem like she's trying to keep her distance. He's doing a really good job. Abby's impressed; he already sounds like he's clawing back toward the surface, and she glances out across the courtyard, breathing in deep and slow and audibly to give him something to copy.

"What do you smell? I don't know the names of everything yet."

[loversinverted]

It has been a very, very long time since the elf has had to weather one of these attacks...it's knocked him way off balance, but with Abby's help, he's regaining it, coming back to himself. What must be himself, anyway. Taking the hint, he tries to synchronize himself with her breathing.

"...Elfroot...and...rashvine, I think...s-spindleweed...?"

The more he settles, the less prominent the accent becomes, fading away back into his customary low drone.

[armd]

It's achingly normal for Abby. His panic is something she's used to seeing. She sits, and listens to him breathe with her, hears the stress of it slowly ebb as he gathers himself together. Elfroot, and rashvine, and spindleweed.

"Yeah? Which one smells like..." sniff sniff, "Aniseed..? I can't tell."

It isn't a bit, she'd love to know. She'd love to draw his mind out of the scared, animal part of his brain that wants to scream and cry and completely lose it, give it something else to chew on. A tiny problem to solve.

[loversinverted]

The tight rattle of his lungs is slowly loosening, all the more when she sets him to a task - that's what he does best, really. Solve problems. Focus on questions. His brows knit together as he drags himself together just a little bit more, just enough to finally drone -

"...I think...that's the rashvine."

Another cough tears from him, deeper as his lungs finally give way - and then Diabhall draws a couple very deep breaths, wrenching his eyes shut and reaching up to rub his temples.

"You've done this...before."

Kirkwall Tavern - OPEN

[loversinverted]

The new ring shines on his left thumb, and he stares down at it where his hand rests upon the tabletop. He had saved a bit of coin to have it done with relative skill, and it’s been done well, he thinks. A study band of iron, simple, etched only with a pair of crescent moons on either side of the chunk of brilliant pink crystal set in the center. The only other embellishment to it is hidden inside the band, something secret, something private.

It looks...out of place on Diabhall, a man who wears only blacks and greys, who keeps ornamentation to a minimum. In fact, it feels alien for him even to wear, and he just keeps staring at it, usually sharp red-pink eyes bleary.

Maybe it’s the fourth glass of wine he’s working on, but something in his chest feels...tight, as he regards it. As he thinks about where he got the crystal, what the crystal is, what it was. Pale fingers toy with it, twisting it around and around.

But if the sensation in his chest is the fault of the wine, what is to blame for the drinking itself? Or the way that his eyes shimmer in the dim light of the tavern?

He sighs heavily, draining the glass, and orders a fifth, cheeks and ears rosy, usually-ramrod-straight carriage drooping.

skids in here late

[hornswoggle]

"It's quite a tab you're running up," is John's chosen introduction. Interruption. Either or. It's hard to say which at this exact moment. Diabhall is certainly intent on some goal. John just hasn't sussed out exactly what that might be.

Regardless, he has not been invited to this table. But he sits anyway, easing into the seat across from Diabhall and stretching out his leg at an angle. There is no cup in his hand, but he nods towards the bar, so perhaps there will be something arriving for him soon.

"Forgive the intrusion," John continues, by way of excusing himself. "I've been in conversation with those five gentlemen across the room, and I need to fortify myself before I re-engage."

Responds extremely late

[loversinverted]

"I can afford it...I assure you."

Diabhall wasn't expecting company, in truth. He's not usually the first person people choose to sit with in these situations, after all, unless there is no other seat...and besides, he's certainly he scarcely looks like good company. Still, regardless of his expectations, there he is - sitting across from a man he doesn't recognize by sight.

Blearily, he blinks, straightening up a little bit. When he speaks, it's in his usual drone...but slurred a little by the wine. His eyes still have a telltale shimmer to them, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"...It's quite all right. I...wasn't precisely...busy."

puts shamed hand over time stamp

[hornswoggle]

Even in the flickering lantern light and shadows of the tavern, Diabhall's condition does not go unnoticed. John is always deliberately clear-headed. And he knows how to mark someone wavering one way or another, though he thinks little of it in this moment. They are in a tavern. If a man sets himself to sampling the wares, is it really so unusual?

"You seem to have put your mind to a task, of sorts," John posits. "I won't disturb you from it."

Not every man welcomes hearing that he has perhaps had enough.

"Do you care for conversation?"

no shame only zuul

[loversinverted]

The elf has been drinking. He doesn't particularly care that it's plain he has been drinking, but the lack of judgement on John's part doesn't go unappreciated. One willowy hand drifts to his drink, and he draws a long sip of it before replying, his tone cool, but not irritable.

His eyes keep flicking to the ring, despite his best efforts.

"...Yes. Perhaps conversation would be...well, perhaps I could use the diversion."

[hornswoggle]

"Thedas not agreeing with you?"

Diabhall certainly wouldn't be the first rifter driven to drink at the change in scenery.

Apart from all the chaos of Thedas itself, there was the question of Rifters, of course. Being plunged into a land where one was, by virtue of existing, the subject of such scrutiny would be enough to test anyone's nerves.

what did i say about shame

[loversinverted]

"Quite the contrary," he drones, sliding those bright, rosy eyes up to his current companion. "I rather like it here, in many ways. Clearing the slate has been...interesting. Freeing, even."

As drunk as he is, there is still an eerie stillness to Diabhall as he sits there, with an expression that would be stony were it not for the moisture shimmering in his eyes. He taps his fingers a couple of times on the table, thinking a moment before adding to his statement.

"There are just...some bugs in the clockwork. I'm trying to pick them out, but they are persistent."