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

[armd]

... Fair point, but does he have to be such a twerp about it?

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.

[grindset]

That stirs up one syllable of laughter, a neatly plucked heh. One of those sounds that seems to achieve the perfect frequency to echo around despite being quiet. Did she turn his metaphorical wheel into a vehicle? It's not this alone he finds funny, but that she's not even wrong:

"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.

[armd]

Abby makes a soft scoffing sound in response (she didn't realise she made a shitty pun until he hehd at it), and takes the book. Crouching, she slots it into place, fingers brushing the spine.

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."

[grindset]

"They're uncommon at home," Viktor says, leaning to make room for her arm. They don't call them cars, either, but he's learned the term from rifter chatter and doesn't find it offensive. "Luxury items, or impractical prototypes. You do make a good point—wartime mandate or not, I would rather not sink my effort into terrorizing people. Like I said, as ideas go, it's a throw-away... but still fun to think about."

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?"

[armd]

Interesting. Abby mmhmms in agreement, and her gaze passes over him as he walks the cart away. She tries not to linger on the limp, but she's curious about this brace that clamps around the outside of one pant leg. He made it himself, right? If he's an inventor. The hinges move so smoothly when he walks.

"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

[grindset]

"Left them in my other pants."

—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."

[armd]

Look, at best you can have a snort, but that's the best Abby can do. Cuz it actually is kinda funny. Little guy's got jokes.

"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."

[grindset]

A snort will suffice.

"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?"

[armd]

"Depends on how high the ladder is," is both a joke response and secretly very honest (she's assuming he's talking about the one ladder the library has in its possession for reaching the books that live on the very tops of the shelves. That ladder is fine).

"Are you asking if I can get something down for you?"

[grindset]

"Generally speaking, if you're willing, it would be much appreciated. I have no specific need at the moment. However... this one happens to live up there."

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?"

[armd]

Abby looks up, following his gesture. She has to resist the urge to laugh over this suggested use of her muscled bulk when it almost borders on inappropriate. Like, is this the best use of her? A stepping stone? But recalling all the times she ever did this for Lev, laced her hands together for him to fit a shoe into, how propelling him upward felt like launching a bird in the air, she finds herself nodding anyway.

"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."

[grindset]

It is inappropriate, and that is why he says it. This person is barely tolerating his appropriation of her role, he's presumptuously convinced her to follow him around simply by assuming she'll do so, and now he's suggesting she make a stepladder of herself. In all honesty, he expects her to take it for the cheeky joke it appears to be. Boost me, haha, j/k... unless?

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.

[armd]

Yes, she can just. Abby adjusts, working slow, widens her stance so he can better fit himself into it, and use her as leverage. Maybe this is stupid, now. At the same time maybe nobody has ever actually offered to boost him up a bookshelf either, and they're both amused by this in their own, individual ways.

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.

[grindset]

It is, indeed, an easy lift. The cut of his cheekbones and the way his clothes hang, these say he's thin, but the clothes do a little to hide the true extent of it. This isn't the kind of thinness that belies a secret density of wiry muscle—he's simply a scrawny little man, all bones. And he fears not at all the hoist up, nor the moment of wobble as he reaches, the book tilting like a brick at the end of his skinny arm.

He doesn't impose his braced leg on Abby, but lets it hang, held at a slight angle for balance. If she was curious about it, she'll have an eyeful now: strong shanks, brass fittings and rivets, leather straps of excellent quality. The steel framing his knee, while bulky at a glance, is really an elegant arrangement of forms, especially in its integration with the hinge. A consummate marriage of aesthetic and function. The warm, conditioned look of the leather in particular says this is not at all a new piece of equipment; the polished scuffs say it is impeccably maintained.

These higher shelves aren't quite so densely packed, so Viktor can use the one he holds to nudge open a space for it—

"Almost," he says, because it's polite to provide status updates to the person upon whom you are standing. "Just two seconds more." Soft shuffling, a pat on the bound spine, and, "There. Coming down— don't drop me—"

Down is, as ever, a little trickier than up. Again, he only puts his hands on the shelves.

[armd]

"I'm not going to drop you," she replies patiently, frowning to herself- what does she look like, an asshole?

(Maybe...)

Either way Viktor has plenty of time to make his descent. Abby doesn't have a problem lowering him slowly until he's able to get his braced leg onto the ground for some semblance of balance. Of course, he's free to put a hand on her shoulder too to better situate himself first. It's no bother. Besides, he can repay her in kind by answering some potentially invasive questions Abby has gathered up since she came face to face with his braced leg.

"Did you build that thing yourself?" She has gathered that yes, he did. But she wants him to talk about it so she is casting out bait.

[grindset]

Were he inclined to touch her or anyone else with his hands, he would; he isn't, and so does not. The shelves will do. He does mistakenly hook the tops of a few thick spines with his fingers, and so nearly dumps them on Abby's head, but a spark of good reflex pushes them back in before they fall, and he wipes the yikes from his face completely before it reenters her eyeline.

Both feet steady, brushing the dust from his hands, he offers in reply a semi-blank look that lasts only as long as it takes his attention to rejoin them on the floor. His hand, then, rejoins the cart.

Off a glance down, "Eh, yes, I did. This is the third iteration."

[armd]

They have almost completed shelving the full cart, now. There is little reason for her to remain here other than to bug him with questions, which Viktor doesn't seem to mind anyways, because he continues to answer them very patiently.

"Do you add little improvements every time," Abby says, her eyes brightening, a warning sign for fast approaching bad humour, "Cup-holders? Does it clean itself?"

[grindset]

That nets Abby an instant of flickering surprise, then a glimpse of his smile as he turns it away, the rest of him following. The restrained urge to laugh pushes a longer breath through his nose. This isn't some heh or a wry huff—those are no less authentic than anything else he does, but their topics were an arm's length away. This one lands closer, stirs up vestigial reflex. (He was a shy child. Quiet.)

"Maybe next version," he says, and leans into pushing the cart. "After the headlamps."