open + closed;

[grindset]

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.

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.

Comments

[favoriteanalyst]

"I have my doubts about both of those statements." The funny thing is that in spite of the affronted nature Viktor has, he hasn't even tried to ask Mobius to leave this little room. "Have you eaten yet?"

He will not make it his job to babysit a grown man, but he can do it for a little bit. Said man hasn't even touched his warm leaf water.

[grindset]

It isn't the company that bothers him, but its focus. Since his first oblique request to be left alone had the opposite result, he intends to make himself too boring to bother with—or, had intended to do so, with some unwanted veering toward indignation. Course correction is now taking place. It would be easier to keep a lid on his (admittedly mild) temper if he had eaten something, but the dining hall is down several flights of stairs and in another tower entirely, and his notes are right here, so,

"No."

As of that second look he gave it, the leaf water is now symbolic and thus fated to remain untouched.

"Have you had your fill of treating me like a child?"

[favoriteanalyst]

"Well, seeing as it doesn't seem like you've had a fill of acting like one, guess I haven't." He says it so lightly, conversationally. "I don't mind playing at being a dad so long as it's not a full-time job. If I bring up some grub, you could tell me all about the specifics of what you're working on?"

Given the peace offering of a nice mug of tea is going completely ignored, he imagines food will go the same way. But he'll make the offer anyway.

[grindset]

"Whatever derangement of personality has led you to believe that imposing your paternal instincts on a grown man simply because he happens to be working in a space you currently monitor is a reasonable thing, I suggest you stop listening to it."

Now that the acknowledgement of biological functions has been incepted among his thoughts, he's realizing he is, in fact, hungry, and the annoyance of it propels his hand to quicker scratching. The text it produces is all but illegible even to someone who can read the language, let alone a stranger in the universe.

He did thank him for the tea—but then other stuff happened, and now—

"I'm investigating the feasibility of developing basic infrastructural improvements for Darktown. If that interests you, and you can bear to stop condescending to me for five minutes, we can discuss it."

[favoriteanalyst]

Grown man Viktor may be, still something of a scrawny kid to Mobius. He knows there are people that live very long lives, but frankly, he's pretty sure it'll be a true miracle of the Maker if he reaches sixty. Viktor might be a little sickly, but he still looks young in comparison.

He's not looking for kids. And if anyone's his, it's Ellie. Maybe he should drop the petulant act, but if the man across from him can't accept the idea that someone cares about his health and the way he seems to not want to care for it in the moment, then--

"Pretty sure I left 'reasonable' behind a while ago." When Starkhaven fell, or maybe before that. Maybe when the mages rebelled. Maybe nothing in his life had ever really been reasonable. That's the point, isn't it? Ever since blessed Andraste graced him? But he isn't interested in debating what is or is not reasonable to someone who can't even be bothered to drink some water much less wash up.

He can't even really say he's interested in debating Darktown's infrastructure, either, but he's interested in the man, so he also can't say he's completely dismissive of the topic. Come at it from the side, then, and see how quickly that derails as well. (Does some part of him wonder how long this will go before he's told in no uncertain terms to fuck off? Hm.) "Is this what you used to do back home? City planning, engineering."

[grindset]

Whether in concession to the need to interpret these notes later, or to the seemingly favourable change in course—seemingly, because he isn't so easily fooled into thinking this won't inevitably wind back around to some further disrespect—Viktor's writing slows on the next line.

"Not city planning, no." But he helped change the skyline forever. "Engineering, yes. Mechanical," to clarify, "and arcane. To you, my work might resemble dwarven technology." He scratches out a word, replaces it. "I've been told I should visit their capital."

He is scrawny, thin as a wire, pale as bleached stone, roughly three inches shorter than Mobius himself, and more than a little sickly. Not one of the pieces in the outfit he's assembled from native garments fits his narrow frame quite right. Either he hasn't gotten around to having them tailored, or he doesn't intend to bother. But, to the credit of his self-respect, neither he nor the room smell bad, exactly—only like himself.

(Which, should the sniffer not be chemically compatible with him, might still be bad, but that's hardly his fault.)

[favoriteanalyst]

He might scrub up fine, but that hair still needs a thorough wash. Or at least a wet comb. Maybe just that. And he needs meat on those bones.

"You should, if you're ever able. Getting into Orzammar sounds like it's a bit difficult these days," as though it's ever sounded easy, "but mechanical and arcane sounds up the dwarven alley. Could see if there are some surface dwarves that have some know-how, take a look at what you're sketching up."

Still, Darktown is a big undertaking, and any kind of renovation would still involve relocating people temporarily, and there are plenty of less than savory folks down there that could, would, endanger any potential building crews. "What manner arcane? How does magic in your world compare to here?"

[grindset]

"Not being a mage, myself, it's hard to say, precisely. I'm still working out the differences."

As his focus fully departs from his notes (which are next to useless, anyway, as he was mostly writing out of stubbornness) (that bit he scratched out was definitely an accidental transcription of his own speech), Viktor's hand stills.

"But there are consistencies, such as the existence of a runic system, and its application in permanent enchantment... and our power source was a crystal that shared many of lyrium's apparent properties."

It's tentative, the way he begins to unfold—merely a decrease in the depth of creasing between his eyebrows, a faint relaxation about the shoulders—but even if he tries, there's no concealing the gleam in his yellow eye.