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Entry tags:
open + closed;
WHO: Viktor + Abby + Bastien + Edgard + Ellis + Mobius + Richard + Stephen + Tony
WHAT: catch-all for November
WHEN: now, kind of, but also whenever
WHERE: around the Gallows, particularly the library and Research division workroom
NOTES: Open to all/any, wildcards and tweaks welcome. Will match tag format. Content warning for terminal illness in some threads; will avoid on request. Also!! Hit me up if you want to share a job.
WHAT: catch-all for November
WHEN: now, kind of, but also whenever
WHERE: around the Gallows, particularly the library and Research division workroom
NOTES: Open to all/any, wildcards and tweaks welcome. Will match tag format. Content warning for terminal illness in some threads; will avoid on request. Also!! Hit me up if you want to share a job.
Nighttime cracks an eye to gloaming dawn, to a fog moving at a steady crawl between the Gallows and Kirkwall proper, like it's a huge vessel passing by, like it's going somewhere. Fleeing the sun, maybe. A futile effort.
Viktor likewise cracks an eye, two eyes, squints through a fog receding. He raises his head, wipes his mouth, drags a little reading glass on a chain into the gutter and shuts the book around it. On Astrariums, the cover says. Has he ever put his head down 'just to rest' and not ended up warping at least one page with biological humidity?
Since no one's kicked him out of it—or at least had any success to date, should they have tried—this single side room on the lowest floor of the library has fully evolved into a combination office and living space. From it Viktor emerges with crazy hair and an armful of other books, squinting and snuffling and stiff, taps over to the return cart stationed nearby, and adds them to his prior deposits. He then leaves with the cart; his crutch, leaned out of the way, stays behind.
From there he moves slowly between aisles, stopping here and there to slide a book into place, or to leave it out conspicuously so someone who climbs ladders can put it back where it lives. Once in a while he'll pause with a hand on the shelf to yield to a coughing fit, or else to wait for some other silent thing to pass, before moving on.
No one asks him to do this, he just does it.
Other times, he may be found on any library floor, or back in his ('his') little side room, either busy at the table, or asleep on the settee. (Or asleep at the table. Again.) The door is often open, sometimes left unlatched and open a crack.
On rare occasions he may be found on the library's stone balcony, either sitting alone on a bench (also stone), or leaning on the balustrade (is anything not made of stone here) to look out over the sea, nursing some private melancholy.
Later, when the tower begins to sound like it's waking up, Viktor makes the climb to the seventh floor and assumes his spot in the Research workroom. Settles his bony backside on the stool. Spins a dry pen around his thumb while he thinks.
It looks like he's pondering some deep mystery; what he's thinking, really, is that it's annoying that no one exists here who can check his work on this page or the pages beneath it. (Annoying, upsetting, a constant low ache.) No one needs to check that half of his work. It's fine. He knows it's fine. Still—
Should any be present, he might ask of someone he knows has worked with local runes,
"Can I run something past you?"
Or, of a rifter, or else anyone he's hardly spoken to,
"How well versed are you in the native runic system?"
Or it's any other day and he's just toiling away in here like anyone else might be. Coworkers will have found he tends to respond at least lukewarmly to working chatter, and that if he doesn't want to be interrupted, they won't have to guess—they'll know.
The sound of coughing follows him everywhere: a herald of his arrival, a sign of his otherwise quiet presence, a dry barking down the hall.
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Abby has already connected the dots to her own, personal irritation, but she makes him hold the book aloft for ten seconds longer than is strictly necessary; only then does she take it from him, sliding it promptly back into place.
"Right," gruffly. "Look- just leave them in a stack, and I can sort them out and put them back for you. Okay?"
She- has a system, this isn't a scavenger hunt. She has a woolen tunic on over her undershirt, but the breadth of her is still obvious to anybody looking, it's not like the weight of the books is going to become an issue. It may even be a draw.
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"Is it really such an inconvenience? They're going where you'd be bringing them anyway."
Why is he even arguing this? Because of reasons. With both hands back on the cart, he winds up to resume pushing it, which is easily achievable despite the comparatively tiny breadth of him. If he turned sideways, she could probably shelve him too.
"And I've already sorted them."
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Okay?? That's important to her. And she's aware that sounds petulant, but coming to shelve away books has become a real highlight of her day. Most of the time she ends up sticking her nose into something she's supposed to be sorting: it is a distraction within a distraction, it is perfect, and he's doing some of it for her!
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"It used to be mine," he says, in yielding calm. "Years ago." One of them, among several; self-imposed busywork in that liminal time between crossing the bridge and discovering the true vehicle for his purpose.
"Might as well finish on the way back." It'll mean a circuitous path, but, "There's no sense in returning it half full."
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"Fine," she grumbles. Great. Now she has to find something else to fill this chunk of time- she casts a glance across the books that he has yet to file away in their places. None of them really appeal to her. A lot of nonfiction... not even one steamy romance tucked away between those tombs.
Still, she plucks one from the cart anyway, flipping it over to glance at the back. "Where were you? Years ago."
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He'll warm up to elaborating momentarily.
The book Abby holds is an account of a professional geologist's tour through Antiva—more or less a series of exceptionally nerdy personal journals assembled for publishing, featuring many lovingly expressed observations of ores rare and common. It may be the least dry among them. Between pages there's still a slip of paper marked up with a language not appearing anywhere else in Thedas. A temporary bookmark.
Viktor stops to return a particularly thick book to its place—not his own pick, but it's on the cart, so back it goes.
"I was assistant to the dean of the local academy of sciences." See? "Occasionally I volunteered my time to the stacks."
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There are none, but she finds the bookmark. Failing to read what's on it, she snaps the book shut, right as he starts talking again.
Okay then. "Are you a geologist?" Judging from this book in particular, and the clear interest he has taken in it. A geologist's assistant, or something. ... Do those guys need assistants? Honestly, Abby doesn't understand why you'd bother studying geology at all outside of extreme curiousity for the subject.
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"No. Arcane engineer."
Mechanist, physicist, big ol' nerd. That this old cart hasn't squeaked even once since she caught up with him is not a coincidence; devices in his habitual vicinity tend to quietly improve over time.
"That," the book, "proved a worthwhile read. There's a chapter devoted to metalwork that expresses certain aspects of the craft an instructional text simply doesn't convey." There are a few illustrations of peculiar mineral structures, but they're few and easy to miss, and their lines blurred fat by the print reproduction process. She's not missing much by not scouring the book for them. "It's more... intimate."
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She's already identified an issue. "How are you going to make things here without electricity?"
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It's funny because it's true. And he is warming up, by scant degrees, for the topic.
"And by using lyrium as an energy source... but not every machine requires electrical, or even arcane, power." He slows in stride to turn a look toward her, this time just to see—like they're having a conversation, as opposed to some kind of fleeting librarial pissing contest—and remarks, "You're familiar with electrical power systems. That makes more than a few of us."
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Anyway. "Is using lyrium like that... safe?"
She's thinking... no.
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"Compared to what?" Facing forward again, he goes on: "In careless hands, any power source, or the means of its conversion, can be terrifically unsafe. Lyrium isn't unique in that regard. It also happens to be the only option for creating permanent enchantments, so there's little choice in the matter."
He pulls another book, looks at the spine, then up at the shelves—ah, over there.
"We aren't reinventing the wheel, here, we're merely participating in the wheel's evolution. Its particular hazards are well documented."
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Abby has a breath, and she counts to five before she replies. Both hands have found a perch on her hips.
"Okay." This is going to fly over her head so fast but, "What are you hoping to do with it, then? Make a car or something?" Kinda seems like that wouldn't fly here... particularly when people are already incredibly twitchy about magic as it is.
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"I'd be lying if I said I hadn't considered that. There's a limit to what can be justified, however, in terms of division resources. There's more than one project in development as it is, and what I've imagined would be prohibitively expensive for a side venture." He's tilting his head to read spines, not seeing it, looking— "Ah. Bottom shelf. That's for you."
He holds the book out to Abby, saying as he does this, "Armoured vehicle."
Unrelated to the book. The book's about Kirkwall.
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As for armoured vehicle, "If you manage to make something like that you'd probably spend just as long- if not longer- convincing the locals to actually use it." They're so... suspicious. Of things that didn't come from Thedas. And people. Abby clucks her tongue. Somebody has returned a series of books to the shelves out of order; reaching over his head, she fixes them. "Unless this was a rifter only thing. In which case, go for it. I miss cars."
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The cart moves on, and Viktor with it, leaning lightly on the push bar as he sways into his limp. This isn't just for nostalgia; it's a productive cover.
"You say you miss, eh... cars... were there airships?"
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"Cars are common at home," she explains, "but still a luxury item. It's hard to get them up and running, even if you can find one that still has a bit of gas left in it. No airships."
What. "Do- you have airships?"
cobwebby skeleton at desk hits post
—is drier than the dust on the high shelves. Give him a scoff, Abby. Grumble for him. Sustain him on a spiritual level.
"They were common at home, yes. Industrial shipping, public transport, charters, private vessels for the wealthy." He's slowing, skimming the cart's contents... no, none for this little section. Moving on. "On a calm day, the sky would be full of them."
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"No way." The sky, full of flying ships. She's heard all about car traffic, and how much everybody from the old world hated it. Imagine that, twice over. On the ground and in the air.
Ugh, and imagine having to travel that way all the time... she makes a face. Nooo thank you. "I'm glad we don't have them here. Or back home. I don't- like heights."
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"Yes way," Viktor says, having just dropped his chin to double-check the spine of the volume he now holds.
His hand leaves the push bar to walk down the cart in concert with the rest of his body, bony fingers holding a gentle shape, his touch deceptively light for the way his weight dips into his wrist as he pushes off. Indeed, the hinges along his leg, restricted as they are, are silent; this is a very well kept appliance.
"And we may have one, soon enough... but you didn't hear that from me. Does your disapproval of heights extend to ladders?"
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"Are you asking if I can get something down for you?"
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On an upper shelf, he means, as indicated by a gesture with the book itself.
He's standing a few steps down from the cart, aiming a considering look up. When was the last time he climbed a ladder? Long enough ago, now, that he can't remember the occasion—had he known then that it would be the last time he did, it might have held some significance. Instead it was just another thing he oughtn't be doing and did anyway. If he had to, he thinks, he still could.
Maybe he'll try it when this young lady isn't here.
Or—
Viktor turns his head.
"Want to give me a boost?"
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"Sure thing." Part of the job, right? He's in the library, asking for assistance. May as well.
She widens her stance, props her hands over her thigh. Glances up, judging her positioning, adjusting slightly to account for the book he pointed out. "Foot, here."
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Oh, she's. She's agreeing. There's a stalled moment, this fact sinking in, before he activates.
"I can't lift my leg that high," he says, grasping the shelf above her hunched shoulder, rather than the shoulder itself, for support. "If you could just—" Just accommodate the stiffness of his rickety body for a second before this ill-advised hoist overhead—
Foot here, eyes up, "OK." He's ready. Has he done this before? He looks like he has.
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But she changes her mind on that when she sees his face, looking expectantly up. Interesting.
"Go."
Abby boosts him. It's a smooth, easy lift up to where he needs to go, and she anchors her hands on her leg without a sound. He can take his time, there's no need to rush.
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