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WHO: Barrow and Wysteria
WHAT: doing drugs for science
WHEN: gestures vaguely
WHERE: the Gallows, probably Barrow's room
NOTES: needles/injection, addiction and chemical habit discussion

Although the oversight would have been welcome, there's something about shooting up lyrium in front of an unwitting audience that still (remarkably) does not appeal to Barrow, so he's suggested for Wysteria to meet him in his chamber instead.
He'll open the door to admit her, gesture her to a chair he's set out, and then take a seat on the end of his bed, careful to avoid the oblivious ball of ginger fur that is one of his cats sleeping in the center.

"All right," he sighs, "tell me what you want to know."

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Wysteria has swept into the room with her usual casual sense of absolutely chaos: the chatelaine at her waist clinking at clanking, skirts all a-swirl, and various papers threatening to spill out from under her arm if she doesn't remand then quickly enough into her lap.

Suffice to say, she doesn't require a second invitation to take advantage of the offered chair. Nor does she need additional promoting before launching into an answer for him:

"I would like to know the way in which a proper dose of lyrium is calculated, and what considerations one ought to keep in mind when devising the measurements. Is the dose always the same, or has to increased the longer you've been—or were in, I suppose—the Order. Are the intervals at which you take it regular? What are the signs of having ingested too much, or not enough? And of course I should like to look at and take down a list of all your tools and see how the stuff is administered."

Simple enough, yes?

Ominously, however, Wysteria takes a further short inhale. That sound has so often preceded a long and complicated monologue—

"Thank you, by the way. I'm grateful for the assistance."

"Ah... let's see." That's a lot of rapid-fire questions all in a row, and he's not certain he caught them all, but Barrow is here to do his best.

"Not sure how dosage is initially calculated, to be honest. Starts off a little at a time when you're young, I imagine it gradually scales as you get older, bigger." He rubs the back of his neck. "I do know that if you've designs on taking it, even half my regular dosage would be more than enough to end you, so I don't recommend it."
Though there's still warmth in his expression as he says so, he also can't help but take a slightly harder, cautionary tone; Don't Fuck Around With This, it says, Even If We're Pals.

"My dosage has increased, eh... incrementally, over the years. Dunno if it's about timing or size, could be both or either. And I take it once a day, around this time."

As he answers, Wysteria has arranged the papers from under her arm across her knees. Locating a blank space on any of them proves to be impossible, and so one page is turned clockwise by ninety degrees so that she may take notes on it cross-ways across the lines which have been taken down already. A pen is summoned from— somewhere behind her ear, most likely from the up done twist of her pale braid and put promptly to work, scratching down some vigorous short hand version of his answers at double speed so she may catch up to him despite this precursor of fussing with the lay of the pages.

"Good, good, very good." Is, presumably, a sign that she has caught everything he's said thus far and not an assessment of being killed by ingesting refined lyrium.

"And the side effects of an overdose?" Here, she looks up and studies him briefly. "Oh, and also how long have you been taking it?"

Relieved that she doesn't seem bothered by his lack of specifics, Barrow continues.

"Overdose... never done it myself, but I've seen it happen. Jitters, nausea, scattered thinking. Fellow thought he was about fifty times stronger than usual, which may've been true, but only for the moments before it left him weaker than ever. And the withdrawals are no joke."

He scratches the stubble on his cheek. "I've been taking it about..." Looking at the floor, he attempts to calculate.
"Thirty...five? Ish? Years."

A series of notes is scratched religiously down in echo of his answers.

"And how would you describe the effects of a properly administered dose? Say if someone were a new trainee of the Order and wishes to be certain they had been properly administered to. —I assume you had some contact with novice Templars, even if it was some time ago."

It's a little depressing, he realizes, to put it into words: "You just feel normal."
Barrow's gaze drops slightly as he tries to find a better way to phrase it, but the mild shrug of his large shoulders indicates that he can't. "It becomes your baseline, except you can also perform your Templar abilities."

Someone else who is not Madame Wysteria de Foncé might hear such a thing and give it some considerate, solemn pause. Yes, indeed. It might be a little depressing.

Unfortunately, Wysteria isn't particularly the solemn pause type with or without the presence of ominous warnings from the universe. She replies smoothly:

"Yes, but initially. When first you began your regimen. I'm looking for a brief description of the effects on a more or less untried user, Ser Barrow.

"It's important to the study that I determine a dosage that is both relatively safe—having acknowledged the many hazards, I assure you—, but also effective enough to determine how different a Rifter or non-Rifter might respond to the lyrium's effects."

Sometimes it's for the best when someone is a blunt instrument, particularly in the case of Wysteria digging for answers on this particular topic; it's not one that's easily spoken about, even for someone as laid-back as Barrow. His withholding information is hardly unprecedented, after all.

"Just Barrow's fine," he says nonetheless, with an air of defeat; they may be talking about lyrium, but he's got no right to call himself a Templar anymore, let alone a knight of any other persuasion. "...energetic, full of adrenaline," he proceeds, "powerful, like you could take on a High Dragon singlehanded. Until it balances out. Untried Templars just starting lyrium are at their most dangerous."

Oh, interesting. This last remark lifts Wysteria's attention fully from her notes. Her pen even pauses, its gleaming metal nib hovering over the page like an excitable little dog shivering with excitement over the prospect of a thrown ball it might soon be running after.

"Due to a particular sort of overconfidence, or because the lyrium truly has increased their abilities to such an extent that they become difficult to control?"

"Bit of both." The cat on the bed has become aware that he has company, and stretches deeply before coming to stand on Barrow's leg, paws kneading contentedly back and forth. Absently, Barrow scratches behind his ears.

"Sort of like a person's first time getting drunk. Feelings like pain and cold are duller, gives him the idea he can do just about anything, to anyone. Take a substance that does actually make him more powerful, someone with the wrong head on his shoulders becomes a real liability."

Wysteria makes a prompt, brief note on the page across her knees. To her credit, she does underline it.

"It is interesting, don't you think, that lyrium effects mages and Templars such similar fashions. It's always been a little funny to me that Thedas doesn't think of its Templars as doing a form of magic."

This has nothing to do with her inquiry and is clearly a sort of throw away remark as Wysteria surveys the sum of the notes she's made thus far for any gaps which might need filling. To wit, she busies herself with making a series of little marks on the page.

"Perhaps we might review your instruments and the process itself now."

"...I..." Barrow begins, but pauses, as it's not something he's thought about in too much detail-- but she's right, isn't she. "...yes, I suppose they are." Even if Templars require the extra chemical boost for their extraordinary abilities.

At Wysteria's prompting, he nods, reaching for a wooden box on his bedside table. Opening it reveals a kit with all the accoutrements necessary for injecting oneself with the telltale blue substance, which he angles toward Wysteria so she can get a look at it.

Lest he suddenly become shy about the semantics of this process and her study be cut unceremoniously short, Wysteria scoots a little closer to the edge of her seat so she may peer more closely at the contents of the kit. With a few hastily jotted down regarding the various items on display—

"Very good, thank you. Now feel free to do as you usually would. You may even pretend if I'm not here, if you like. I will interrupt you only if I have any questions."

Though he opens his mouth as if to protest, or perhaps just answer, Barrow concedes without a fuss-- that's why she's here, after all.

Trying not to look at Wysteria or remember too intently that she's here, he goes about the business of preparing the syringe, tying off his arm, and finding a vein. He doesn't even flinch upon insertion, the scar tissue around the inside of his elbow explanation enough; he's been doing this for most of his life, at this point, and the body grows accustomed to such things.

Wysteria remains shuffled up toward the edge of her seat during the whole of it. She watches with the singular focus of the hawk preparing to stoop on her prey; even the scratch of that pencil over that little collection of all important notes has obediently stopped. This is important work. It's vital that she understand the mechanics of the thing.

Only once Barrow has finished does Wysteria's attention drop swiftly back to her pages so she may hastily dash down a collection of shorthand notes for her own reference. This, apparently, doesn't require her full concentration. With her head bent, she asks—

"I know that sometimes lyrium is also taken as a draught. Is there a benefit to the injection rather than to simply drinking it?"

“Don’t quote me on this,” Barrow muses, “but I think it hits a bit slower this way, stays in the system longer. Mages’ll use it for a boost in their natural casting ability, we need it to do anything at all.”

He’s a bit nervous about the rapid scribbling, and tries not to be too obvious about glancing at Wysteria’s journal—- he can’t see its contents anyway, and isn’t sure he wants to.

"Oh yes, I suppose that makes some measure of sense. It takes some time to feel liquor, after all," is a mumbled, musing sort of agreement and punctuated by a last deft scratching on the page.

Wysteria's attention snaps abruptly upward, suddenly meeting Barrow's eye.

"Very good, sir. This has been entirely informative."

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sorry for how late this is!!

literally how dare you

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makes shit up and pretends it’s magic science

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