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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.
no subject
"Alright? Thought you were--"
He puts a hand to his chest to take a breath.
"You were so still."
no subject
At the table, unintentionally, for probably the fifth time, which is five times too many for any self-respecting adult. Should he be grateful this isn't some emergency? Laugh it off while they both catch their breath? Ha ha, what a funny mistake... no. Instead of taking any time to collect himself, he begins pulling the pages remaining on the table into some semblance of order, snatching angrily here and there.
His ears are turning pink.
no subject
"Must've been tired. Edgard, by the way."
He nods in greeting and either doesn't notice or isn't bothered by the man's embarrassment.
"They have rooms with beds here, lots of them!" He says helpfully. "Didn't tell me about them either when I first got here. Slept all kinds of places for a month or two."
no subject
"I have a room."
Not this one, but he's happy to imply it. He's quietly kipped once or twice in the group quarters, too, slipping in to steal some rest in an undressed bed near the door, concerned he'd be bothered and relieved upon waking to find that he wasn't. Definitely not worth further repeats unless absolutely necessary.
The book, the two pens, the paper scattered on the floor—these he points at, loosely wagging his hand to encompass them all. "Would you mind?"
no subject
Edgard takes his hand, misunderstanding, and shakes it, beaming. Edgard has a nice strong handshake, maybe a little too strong, but it's meant to be friendly. He ends the handshake and continues talking.
"Why were you sleeping here if you have a room? Or--" He looks around wide-eyed, this thought just occurring to him. "People don't live in here, do they?"
It's now that he notices the things strewn on the floor and bends down to pick them up.
no subject
"Ah..." Do they live in here? His own momentary glancing may appear a touch guilty. "It... might seem that way to those not inclined toward long hours of study," nailed it, "but— generally not. No."
no subject
"Are these your things? They fell on the floor. Or were you just sleeping on them?"
They don't look that comfortable to Edgard, but he's not going to judge. Then he leans in close to get a good look at the stranger and the stranger, in turn, can get a good look (and whiff) of him.
"Are you new? Don't think 've seen you before?"
He knows he hasn't. He is being polite.
no subject
"I've... been here for over three months." He says this while leaning back to preserve as much of his personal space as possible. Whatever smell may waft his way, it may or may not be noted, doesn't seem to bother him overmuch. "Not in this room specifically," as he suspects it's worth clarifying, "just here."
Long fingers open to show his palm, the acid green nestled among its creases. Natives rarely catch these, as he understands it, so it ought to serve effectively as shorthand: he's not from here.
no subject
"What do you want to be called, Man Who Sleeps Like He's Dead?"
Any attempt at shorthand is entirely missed by Edgard.
"Glad you were not dead." He offers as a friendly gesture.
no subject
—is flatly spoken, short of actual sarcasm.
Is it worth trying to unbend the creases in any of these loose pages? Probably not. Is that going to stop him? No, he's already pulling one of them free of the book's weight. Anything to spare him from just sitting here under the apparently heartfelt observation of this... guy.
"It's Viktor." He would leave it there, but this fellow seems so earnest— "Research department. I'm just working in here because the books are closer."
And there's a bit of bedding piled up over on the settee because it's closer than his bed.
no subject
"Forces." He offers up. "Like books though. Not enough to sleep with them."
He squints a little, realizing what he has said. Oh well, no going back now! Time to pretend he didn't say that!
"Nice to meet you, Viktor! Leave you with the books...to sleep with them." He blunders and then nearly runs out of the room.