faderift | closed / tall tales

"Not to worry, Serah Viktor," Wysteria had announced some days ago as she'd clambered into the front of their shared mule cart. "I know the region well and am a perfectly confident driver."

And indeed she has proven to be so! So confident that it's a miracle they had escaped the Ferelden port city into which they'd landed without rolling a half dozen pedestrians under the cart wheels on the way out. True also that they are making extraordinarily good time, thanks in part to racing along at such a furious pace that no highwayman might give serious consideration to robbing them and by the entirely thoughtlessly fashion in which Wysteria bullies all opposing traffic—larger carriages, dog carts, flocks of livestock and their shepherds—off the road over embankments and into seasonal mud washes without either discrimination or regard for the cacophony of cursing they might receive in return.

Suffice to say, it hasn't been a particularly relaxing journey. Yet here they are, nary an hour removed from the first of their assigned targets, days ahead of schedule. How pleasing it is to be so very accomplished at everything! In clearly high spirits this grey, unpleasant morning, Wysteria is cheerfully managing the mule's reins decisively in her one hand as they drive along. Every now and then, when she is required to shorten them, she might exert the clamping hook end of her left-side prosthetic to do so. Otherwise the false limb remains tucked under the fall of her brilliantly bright red capelet, detectable only by the bulk of its supporting straps across her opposing shoulder. The only deference to it at all has been to assign Viktor the responsibilities of the whip. Though, in these past days, Wysteria has directed him to use it to strike out at other drivers or riders sullen about giving way more than she has had him apply it to the perfectly amiable animal they have before them.

"Now as I was saying," she says. They have only just passed through a mercifully empty crossroads, trickily navigated only due to it having recently flooded rather than having to beat their way over any opposing traffic. "The intent is to go about it all very responsibly. It's true that lyrium, particularly its raw form, can be highly dangerous. But we have all the correct people to hand to see the concept explored properly and to mitigate the risks as much as is possible. Why, I myself as a Rifter without an anchor will play an important role in the experiment. The only challenge has been convincing some of those correct people that there is long-term value in the work despite the minor immediate hazards. We find ourselves among sometimes rather myopic company, Serah."

Not very relaxing so far, no, but they aren't out here on vacation, they're out here to distribute propaganda, which is a thing that doesn't hold even a shred of Viktor's interest next to his enthusiasm for accompanying Wysteria on this voyage. This remains true even once it becomes clear that she drives like it's a conscious pantomime of the way she talks, although it isn't their conversation that compels Viktor to call out apologies to the most persecuted of those they pass.

He holds on to the whip, at first because it's neat—it doesn't take more than a tickle to get their mule going—and later to spare the strangers they pass, though the odds of Wysteria relinquishing the reins in trade seem very slim. He won't wave it at anyone, though she can direct him all she likes; argument over it comes and goes, blusters back to life a few times before it settles. It adds familiarity to their company in the way only a harmless quarrel can.

Now well accustomed to the particular movements of the cart, thankful for the blanket folded beneath his bony posterior, and finally at peace enough with his hat that he's stopped fussing with it, Viktor answers as he's jostled:

"They're just being careful... which is fine, within reason, but after a certain point caution simply becomes obstructive. In my experience,"

pausing while they clear a washboard of rain-ruts, so his voice won't do that silly vibrating thing,

"the surest way to convince people something is worth doing is to do it. Theory is easy to reject out of hand—evidence, less so. Given a choice, though, I would prefer to have the support up front. I hear it's nice," he adds, with a detectable saline tang.

"Happily, we at least have the support of the Provost. Mister Stark may have imposed certain restrictions on the whole methodology, but he at least recognizes the value of the idea. And I suspect he will see reason in permitting you to go along with it so long as you can demonstrate a thorough understanding of the innate risks."

Why might such guidelines have come along in the first place? Don't worry about it.

"But agreed. At this stage, there is little value in continuing to discuss the thing's merits rather than just doing. There is some paperwork I need to arrange, but otherwise I would like to begin trials almost immediately once we return to Kirkwall. There will be myself and the Provost, and yourself if you're able, and Mister Dickerson and perhaps Mister Gecko,"—who Tony cannot possibly refuse if the man still has interest in the subject, given the givens—"And I would like to have accounts from Sers Barrow and Orlov, and at least one native who has never been a Templar but would still be willing to be dosed with refined lyrium so we may have a full sense or what might be considered the typical response."

Suffice to say, Wysteria doesn't share Viktor's compunctions about her voice doing that silly vibrating thing as they rattle across the various irregularities of the road. She must however occasionally defer to the necessity of breathing, and here is one such moment.

"Such a person may be difficult to find without potentially stirring up unwanted attention... unless one exists within Riftwatch."

Awareness of the team roster? That's someone else's job. His is to solve problems, to transform questions into facts, to bring ideas into reality.

What Viktor has seen since joining Research bears so many similarities to his own work, the parallels draw themselves. When he compares it to his last project, the differences are equally stark: receptive oversight, a whole roster of researchers. Cooperation. Support. It's all so above board—and he can't help feeling like these trials are merely a form of appeasement, that they'll accomplish nothing real until it's done in spite of something.

But it's much too early for such skepticism; technically, he's not even involved yet. He barely knows these people, really, or the system in which they work, and conjuring up contentious spectres of home won't make adapting to them any easier.

"Or the Inquisition, if we're permitted. Drawing from familiar pools may mitigate the risks. As for the risks of the trials themselves... I wouldn't mind going over those in greater detail. Just in case he asks."

It's possible that such a person exists in Riftwatch. She has been thinking of Gwenaëlle, for example—though she has an anchor, and who's to say whether that will make some difference in the matter. So perhaps the Scoutmaster, who to all of Wysteria's knowledge has been nothing if not reasonable given the correct explanations. Or Val, who she might successfully bully into doing nearly anything really so long as there was some promise of solving a mystery involved.

—But this question of personnel is easily the least interesting aspect of the whole affair, and so Wysteria only thinks the thoughts and doesn't bother to speak the aloud as they trundle along.

Instead, with a little flick of the reins to encourage the mule on through a great swampy section of the road, she asks: "Then perhaps you might tell me what you know of lyrium already, refined or otherwise, so that I may be sure that I'm not laboring over some point you already know."

It has been some time since they first broached the subject. Surely he has done some reading in the interim.

"Certainly."

Viktor shifts and leans like he's attempting to get comfortable, accidentally creates a wrinkle in the blanket which will definitely be annoying under his butt if he doesn't correct it, corrects it, and settles presently.

"So... as a lead-in to investigating methods of enchantment, I read what little I could find about the extraction and refinement processes, just to get an idea of the whole picture. From there I reviewed the history of its traditional use here on the surface—physical enhancement, spell blocking, and so on. That it can be used to both amplify and neutralize magic is fascinating... I had never considered the reverse approach, though it makes perfect sense once you think about it. —Anyway, I'm aware of those side effects."

Just those little old side effects, barely worth a footnote, even though that's what they're discussing.

"I was particularly intrigued by the impact on native mages, not only in its unrefined state," you know, the insanity and death and all, "but with prolonged use over time. The transmutative qualities. Especially after reviewing your recent studies on Rifter physiology and the potential for lyrium's use as a reconstructive healing agent."

The parallels draw themselves.

Edited 2022-10-28 15:00 (UTC)

Wysteria begins nodding along somewhere around amplify and neutralize. She is one of those very active listeners, all 'hmm's and 'I see's as if required to speak a minimum number of syllables at all times.

"A very small initial test of that theory—lyrium applied topically to a small wound—proved inconclusive. Highly unpredictable and the effects proved entirely temporary." That's one way of saying Oops we gave someone a few extra eyeballs for a few hours. "Though given the state of The Arm and the records regarding the resolution of the Rifter plague, I've my suspicions that we must simply identify the correct dosage, as it were, either in terms of sustained proximity or direct ingestion or otherwise. Does your interest in the work have anything to do with your own physical limitations?"

She asks it so directly, shifting smoothly from the conceptual to intensely personal inquiry without a glance in his direction much less any polite prevaricating. Some might consider this a bad habit.

Viktor's already looking at her when she asks. Some seconds after, he faces forward. The abrupt shift grinds for only a moment, simply because it is abrupt.

"It does."

Of greater concern than the topic of his physicality is how much he ought to tell her, or tell anyone, and whether those details would legitimize him or make him sound dangerously stupid—or if the reason beneath it all would change the quality of the attention he's paid. He'll take pitiless probing over that any day.

"Before I was brought here, I was— I'd been working on something to that effect. My subjects at that stage were plants, a variety of them, and the results were... not so temporary."

Nothing in the way he says this implies the successful kind of permanence.

There are particular members of their company, and indeed likely individuals to be found in the worlds from which they'd allegedly originated, which might hear some ominous note in that statement. Happily, Wysteria de Foncé is so such person. Rather, her "Were you really? How grand!" is all optimism and genuine interest, unalloyed by the inconvenience of suspecting that things like poor results and unintended consequences might perhaps be reasons to be reasonably discouraged from the pursuit of an idea.

"I would ask what sort of results specifically, but truly I doubt the specifics are very applicable here in Thedas. Yet the theory may remain sound enough, and it would be very fine not to start the whole matter entirely from scratch. I've found that's rather often the case wherein things don't work quite like you imagine they ought to or instance where properties of certain otherwise familiar materials have been rendered unpredictable, but the general trajectory of an idea is more or less—

"Why, it has only just occurred to me that I might have you look at my drawings," she says, cutting herself off. Her attention has wandered away from the road and turned in Viktor's direction. Luckily the mule in charge of their way is the confident sort of animal who can be relied upon to recognize the benefits of continuing to travel along the roadway rather than wandering up the embankment into the fields adjacent to it. "Although they are entirely a matter of enchantment and have nothing at all to do with this business of lyrium interacting with flesh and blood and that sort of thing and teaching Rifters enchanting. But remind me when we return to Kirkwall."

That's a relief; Viktor had silently cursed himself for bringing up his ill-fated subjects the moment he started. Lately his mouth's been running away with his thoughts, which might be blamed on any number of things, including but not limited to exhaustion, increasingly frequent nightmares, and having recently anger-napped so hard it sent him to another realm.

In any case, it's good she doesn't choose to pursue that whiff of failure, because being carried along in a stream of optimistic chatter is precisely what will keep him from dwelling on it. (But they had all better hope those results aren't applicable.)

"I will," he says, and means it. "And I might have something to show in return, should you be interested... also enchantment-related. And arm-related."

Her subsequent "Oh?" has a distinctly leading flavor to it even before Wysteria supplements it with, "Enchantment and arm related. How fascinating. You have my full attention, Serah."

Well, the road certainly doesn't have it.

"Generally speaking. Not the arm."

This is by far preferable to following that other conversational path to a place that makes him feel like he's trying to pry an idea out of the clenched fist of a corpse to show her it's still good. It's gone. Dead. He should get over it. Can't, won't, and should.

This one is dead, too—

"But an arm. A mechanical one, with thirteen hinge and rotary joints and a pressure-adaptive gripping claw, and equipped with a coherent ray emitter."

—but at least he finished it.

"Its movement was remotely controlled," he says, and lifts his hand like he would have, "by a glove. It would track your hand precisely, sensitively, and with a gesture," such a this little peck at the air, "discharge a concentrated optical beam capable of slicing through matter almost instantly. Engraving, carving, welding... you could put it to any creative purpose, with ease."

He drops his hand. "That is, I'm drawing up the plans. Eh, re-drawing them. You know. Just for fun."

Edited (edits my edit) 2022-11-09 03:09 (UTC)

"Oh, yes of course."

From the sound of this easy agreement, Wysteria is quite familiar with this particular brand of entertainment. Yes, why not re-draw old schematics? It's rather like the particular pleasure of putting together a puzzle one's already solved once, the pieces all so charmingly familiar.

"Have you given much consideration to attempting to replicate it here? Or adapt it according to Thedas' rules, I suppose. It doesn't sound entirely divorced from the concept of Mister Stark's version of a golem— Have you seen it yet? I think he calls it Fred. I trust it stands for something, though I couldn't tell you what. How did you link the arm to the glove originally?"

Three questions are better than one.

"Fade reactor engine droid."

—isn't how he linked the arm to the glove. Yes, he's seen it. A remarkable example of craftsmanship, though aesthetically a bit dry, in Viktor's opinion. Cultural differences. He doesn't hold it against you, Fred.

"And the link was simple, actually: one gemstone powered the machine, and another was housed on the glove, each with corresponding components. It took a great deal of trial and error to find precisely the right runic sequence for this effect." And the system was still glitchy last he left off, but that doesn't need to be volunteered. "Given leave to piggyback on the remote control system Provost Stark has already developed, we could have a comparable model up and running in... I want to say less than half that time, but I'm a little fuzzy on fabrication timelines here."

Little fuzzy comes with a little wobble of his hand amid the other gestures.

Edited 2022-11-19 05:28 (UTC)

"You ought to try it. It sounds like it would make designing at scale far more convenient. Mister Stark and I expect that a prototype of the airship"—what airship? The airship, obviously—"may be worked up easily enough with the personnel we have to hand in the Gallows, but anything sized for a proper crew and work at the war front against blighted dragons and so on will either need a great deal of time to build or very specialized tools."

Or both. What does she know about the work of shipwright? Nothing that can't be divined from the study of schematics.

"Is the sympathetic principle of magic one of the rules where you come from?"

After the airship leaves Wysteria's mouth, she keeps talking, while Viktor's expression continues to hold on the one that appeared when she invoked that phrase. It's slowly evolving with the set of his brow, little flicks of his eyes, a sense of building, enforcing patience, waiting for his turn.

"I'm— not sure. We were still working out the rules when I," achieved the aforementioned extra-dimensional nap, "left. You'll have to explain what you mean by sympathetic." But she's left with no room to do so, because here it comes: "A-about the airship, though—"

The airship.

"They're a common form of transportation where I'm from. Aerostats. The Hexgates were designed for them, specifically, all shapes and sizes. So... if you find yourselves in need of insight..."

"Oh!" It's a pleased sort of exclamation; indeed, she is developing a habit of such utterances when in Viktor's company—he has such a fine way of making himself so convenient!

"How fine! Yes, that would be very good of you. Mister Stark and I have discussed the subject at length. And at beam and draft, as it were." Ha ha ha, ship puns. Wysteria slaps the reins at the mule's back as a sort of thoughtless punctuation to the joke, or perhaps out of simple instinct—the animal having begun to lapse back into a slightly more moderate and evidentially unacceptably less jostling pace.

"What a happy coincidence. No! I suppose we might actually use this as an illustration of that very intraphysical principle. That was the focus of my excursion to the dwarven city in the summer. The airship was. I was developing a prototype, which is obviously very secret, of a device designed to power it. I'm very pleased with it as it does something that Thedas mages seem to be entirely unable to accomplish, and I think the Venatori will find it very frustrating. When we return to Kirkwall, we must review it together and compare notes."

Ha ha. Ship puns.

Viktor's lips do actually tighten in amusement. Not a second after it appears, the cart gives them a noteworthy dip and bounce, wrought by a particularly ambitious puddle's crater and exaggerated by the refreshed speed; this promptly resets his focus.

"Absolutely. It would be my pleasure."

Can they turn around, go back and look at it now? Right now? Oh no, they'll say, we were unable to complete our assignment because of reasons. Please accept our deepest apologies. And then they'll huddle around the— whatever it is.

"In the meantime, provided it won't, eh, compromise the secrecy, would you mind describing it? What's this... something... it can do?"

"I wouldn't mind," she says, so promptly as to be entirely promising around the possibility that Viktor's curiosity may very soon be at least partially sated by a highly technical explanation. However—

"However, I only carry enough poison for myself. So if we were to be captured during our excursion, you must promise to me that you will find some alternate means of destroying yourself. Otherwise the Ambassador will be very displeased with me. Posthumously, I suppose. But it's the thought that counts."

She is all smiles as she says this.

She is all smiles, and Viktor is—despite all the time he's spent with Wysteria thus far and the gamut of little surprises that have sprung from her mouth like birds merrily leaving the roost—taken aback. Also faintly birdlike is the way his chin jerks in toward his neck. Not only is he absolutely not going to do that, even hypothetically, it can't possibly be expected of them—she's got to have conjured some funny romantic idea about it, he thinks.

But he wants to hear about the Something, so, easing out of his perturbed look,

"Ah... yes, of course."

If she notices this briefly appalled state of being, she makes no remark on it. But more likely that such looks are simply ordinary to Wysteria. Were she to investigate each time one appeared, there would hardly hours in the day left to accomplish anything else with.

"Very good," she declares, as if this is the answer she expected. "In that case, the prototype in question is a thing that creates wind and the expansion of air to create a sort of constant upward pressure. You can't use force enchantments to keep an airship up, obviously, as eventually you reach a position where there isn't anything substantial to push off of. So we must create something the exploits what is naturally there. Now, some time ago Riftwatch recovered a strange device from Orlais which the Venatori had been using to effect the weather there by generating a constant cold in the region. You of course need no more explanation as to how that would be useful."

Something something the thermodynamics of creating a current of hot and cold air.

"There is still some issue as to the scale of the thing, and obviously now that we have the device to power the concept, everything must now be tested extensively, but— well. I thought it was very clever, in any case."

"Artificial convection... that is clever."

Indeed, no explanation required. As Viktor's thoughts come spinning up his hand stills, poised in pre-gesture, then opens to movement.

"Multiple units positioned around the ship could enable precision control—for an aerostat, anyway. Plenty of room for improvement there. And that would of course depend upon the unit's size, as well as our ability to replicate the technology." His attention snaps from the middle distance of compulsive inspiration back to Wysteria herself. "Do you think it's possible? How much testing have you done so far?"

"Relatively little. But I'm confident in the work, and Mister Stark is supportive of the concept. Riftwatch may not be an entirely persuasive organization on all fronts, but I trust in its ability to persuade rich people to part with their money for novelty. And that's really what a great deal of this comes down to. Funding, I mean. To say nothing of the fact that I've yet to encounter a problem that Mister Stark and I couldn't solve with the correct amount of time and resources. Of which you yourself now are one," has the cheery air of a compliment by way of a joke rather than an insult, obviously.

She flashes Viktor a wide, unladylike grin.

'I think I'd prefer to never ride a horse again, if it can be helped,' he'd said to Lalla when they'd at last arrived in Kirkwall, having had spent more consecutive time in the saddle that previous week than he'd otherwise managed to aggregate in the past decade. He'd spent the next four days hobbling around the little rented attic room, too stiff to accomplish much and too friendless to trust that anyone might run any of their very necessary errands on their behalf.

But then what possible reason could he have for riding in the immediate future? The plan, even when faced with the changeover in Kirkwall from Inquisition to Riftwatch, had ever been to work in relative obscurity. He need only wile away a few hours writing letters on behalf of the diplomacy division and all that might be accomplished from inside the Gallows.

And yet!

So here he finds himself, a number of months later, sitting very gingerly at some corner table in the recently rebuilt public room of a relatively bustling coaching inn just south of Ghislain. They've at least one more day of riding on horses let from the Val Chevin livery ahead of them yet before they're due to arrive where they've been directed to pamphlet, but he's beginning to seriously consider the possibility that his haunches may fall directly off his body before they do. Sitting there, nursing a mug of hot mulled wine and doing his best not to aggravate the worst of the bruises, Brother Vesperus looks like an especially morose and scraggly collection of sticks in a traveling cloak.

"If one of us were to break a leg, do you think the Gallows would send someone with a griffon to rescue us?"

He has such a dour face that it's difficult to parse whether it's a joke or not, but it must be one—and at his own expense to boot.

(Maker, his boots feel tight too.)

It has been years since her incident and Gela still believes that animals have a predisposition to dislike her. She probably smells wolfish to a nose that is sensitive, has tiny ticks or tells that are off-putting, when in reality it's palpable anxiety that tips off anything around her; the journey is an uncomfortable in more ways than one. Her horse flicks his ears nervously, channeling the mood of his rider, who grips the reins tight in her scarred hands as they make their way due west.

She doesn't ride often. She is in very sore spirits by the time they call halt for the day but unwilling to show it, determined, as always, to grin and bear it (yet she walks toward their coaching inn bow-legged). At least it is warm in here, and Gela can unwind her scarf from her neck. Laurentius looks as weather-beaten as she, face chapped red from cold.

Gela hums in brief answer, working to scrape stray hair back from her face, redoing the tie in the back to keep it there. "No," she answers, and flashes her teeth in a little smile, "Because we haven't done any of the work yet."

Most of a journey and nothing to show for it? The walk home would be even longer. Her gaze tracks across the little inn, searching, "Do you think they'd have a bit of hot water for a bath? Otherwise I'll never be warm again."

"My guess is yes. I think even in"—the south, is on the tip of his tongue; he steers around it—"Orlais, they usually expect their inns to be able to supply a wash basin."

He turns slightly in his chair, wincing because that's a mistake, in an effort to seek out some trace of the potboy who'd hustled them to a table and drinks into their hands before scampering elsewhere at the behest of other, better dressed guests. The fact that Laurentius had made the mistake of speaking to him, and the cadence of his own accent had made the boy's eyes narrow fiercely narrow, probably has nothing to do with the disappearance.

"Consider this. We stay here tonight, you get your bath, and we try walking next to the horses rather than riding tomorrow."

Yes, he's sure that's why they were afforded a stipend to hire the animals with.

Gela very much likes the sound of that... but ever aware of being given a job and then doing it very well, she ends up shaking her head no. "It won't do," she admits, giving him a shrug, a what can you do gesture. "We can't use up all the time gettin' there, can we. That isn't the job."

It's true that papering Orlais cannot possibly be of... extreme importance, but even so. The less time spend outside the Gallows safe, stone walls, the better. She is, of course, ever aware of the fact that if something were to go wrongly tonight, this inn would not stand a chance against her.

"I say we sleep early, get our feet up; I'll make you a good tea, for the aches. I brought some things with me. That will make you feel better."

The suggestion makes him grimace. The unforgiving lines of Laurentius' face briefly paint it as sincere disapproval before what sounds to be persistent good humor clarifies in a slightly overplayed sigh. If she's going to insist on being responsible—

"You're a slave driver, Serah Baynrac." He produces his large, bony hand and offers it somberly across the table as if they've negotiated a matter far more serious than aching backsides and sore calves.

"I've a touch of healing I can offer in exchange for your tea."

She is! Gela knows she has the unpopular opinion but her smile doesn't waver. She is going to be cheerfully unreasonable until he gives in, and so she returns his handshake with great satisfaction. His fingers are still cold from the outside weather.

"What kind of healin'?"

This is of interest to her. She thinks she's being calm and collected about it, but she definitely just sat up straighter in her seat.

For better or worse, this straightening of shoulders and adjustment in her seat seems to hardly warrant notice from Laurentius. Naturally healing in the south is rare and strange, even among the ranks of Riftwatch. He's heard only the well to do ordinarily benefit from it.

"I'm no spirit healer, if that's what your asking. But I know a little of the creation school, and that should do enough to help make you comfortable."

Gela is visibly disappointed for a breath or two. She thought- well. Never mind. He isn't the only healer that works with Riftwatch, and there are plenty more to ask questions of. Besides, she hates the way he says it to her. 'Make you comfortable'. She's had enough of magic making her do anything. She will look after her own self.

"That's fine." She hastens to wave him off, shutting down. "You're kind to offer me that, but you should keep that bit of energy for the next day's ride."

It's a strange thing to be on the receiving end of—that disappointment, that reservation writ clearly in his companion's face. We're he not at this point otherwise perfectly well endured to the prospect of being objectionable, he might even find it— not insulting, exactly. Just something to prick at the shadow of his pride, maybe.

Good thing it's already been run well through then, eh?

In its place, Brother Vesperus pastes on a patient sort of smile. It doesn't flatter his face very well, but it's hard to say whether there is much he could do with it that would.

"Well now you've backed me into declining your tea to be polite. And I was looking forward to it."

An easy joke, reflexive if not quite off the cuff. Methodical would seem to be one of the man's middle names.

"Were you hoping I might say something else?"

Laurentius' smile only makes his face sharper, and Gela finds herself reminded of a bird of prey, something with a sharp, curved beak. It makes her feel strange, like she's being sized up. "Oh," she says, feigning ignorance, "Have I? I didn't mean to."

She thinks he is being difficult on purpose... it sets her hackles up a little, but she mirrors his smile, determined, as always, to get along.

Some people don't like to let you in if you don't give a little something of yourself first. She steadies herself, and tells him, "Yes, I- have a question for a healer, but I think it's a tough one. I've seen a lot of different people who haven't been able to give me an answer for it yet, so."

She dimples. "I'm sorry, if I offended you."

"None taken," seems true. "I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful. But if you scrape a knee or get any splinters between here and Ghislain, then I'm your man."

Laurentius raises his cup faintly to cheer the idle joke made at his own expense. The vessel dwarfed in his large bony hand.

"There are good healers in the Imperial Chantry. You could try writing to one of them. Under false pretenses, obviously, but it's been my experience that most of those kinds love a good mystery. I could suggest one or two names if you think you're an able enough liar on paper to obscure your identity."

Gela's elbow nearly slips from the table in her haste to sit up much straighter. Now she is intrigued. She holds herself quite still then, to keep her usual liveliness from disrupting the possibility of a good idea.

"Would you?" No false charm here, she is genuinely touched by the offer. "I would deeply appreciate it; and surely lyin' on paper is easier, anyway, because you have more time to think about the lie."

Nothing like real life.

Then, Gela considers him and adds, almost sadly, "But I don't know what I could offer you in return for this kindness."

"Consider it payment for your tea since I can't do anything better for you right now. Tit for tat."

Only here he pauses. Like a man very unused to budgeting his spending regretting an impulse purchase given the lightness of his wallet, the shadow of hesitation that passes over Laurentius's face is delayed partly because it comes so unnaturally to him. It develops into a grimace—rare chagrin.

(All this subterfuge business truly does chafe.)

"And you'll have to promise not to mention me. I'll come up with some other reason you knew to write them."

"It's worth more than the tea," Gela wheedles, but decides to let him have it in the end. If he wants to help her out this much, she should let him! Now she feels breathless. The apples of her cheeks have gone pink. This is what she came to Riftwatch for in the first place, and everything is falling neatly into place.

"Promise," she adds, instantly. "Of course I won't mention you. I'll help you with the reason, I could stand to do a bit of my own research before I go sayin' anything at all."

Just in case... but this really does feel like a good step in the right direction.

"Oh, it shouldn't be hard to pass off an excuse. Chantry healers are either generous or like any other scholar—desperate for recognition."

Might qualify as a sick burn if he weren't demonstrably cut from that exact cloth himself. Of the things Laurentius had seen fit to pack for this little excursion, half had been books and papers. Indeed if climbing the stairs were a less agonizing challenge to his saddle stiff body, he might otherwise have already excused himself to the relative quiet of one of the let closet sized room where he might resume scribbling out notes.

What it isn't is particularly self deprecating—just an offhand joke, buoyed by the sudden vibrant turn in Gela's demeanor.

"Do you mind if I ask what your question is?"

Gela smiles but elects not to say anything; this isn't the best place for her derisions on the Chantry. And she thought that he might ask her this because somebody always does eventually, and of course the healers will ask her when she writes to them but remains persistently, maddeningly vague about what she's truly asking for help with.

She sighs, looking to him. "It's to do with my late mother," she explains.

This is a lie, but she has told it so many times it almost doesn't mean anything to her any more. Sometimes Gela wonders if she made it up entirely, to account for why her mother hasn't tried to reach out to her over the years she's been gone. It's dramatic enough to be true, but she knows in her heart it isn't. That her father seldom lies. "And somethin' that could be hereditary, it's- why I'm lookin' for opinions."

Perhaps it would be most natural to take a little exception over this purposefully thin answer. After all, he's offered to chase down some assistance for whatever it is; wouldn't knowing the details do some good to that end?

But sitting there at the cramped little table in the roadside carriage inn and nursing the diminishing contents of his cup, Laurentius doesn't seem at all put off. Instead what he says, seemingly quite sincerely, is—

"I'm sorry to hear your mother's passed."

Edited 2023-01-20 06:06 (UTC)

Knowing details would help. But you don't ask for details about somebody's dead mother, and anybody who dares is easily shut down. Nobody watching would think you in the wrong for it, so Gela lies, easy, practiced. She smiles too, a sad little thing.

"Thank you."

Family is a dangerous subject matter.

"I'm sorry," she simpers, brows knitting together, the picture of apology, "I didn't mean to bring the mood down. We should probably discuss how we're goin' to tackle all this once we get there."

closed / tall tales

wysteria & viktor

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aren't you glad you waited a million year for this incredibly short tag

i'm a million glad

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performs necromancy

performs double necromancy

https://youtu.be/sABdtEaKMYE

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laurentius & gela.

skids in

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where did you say you came from again, sir?

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likewise!

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