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Entry tags:
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WHO: Wolfram & You
WHAT: Fresh meat, slightly tainted.
WHEN: Drakonis!
WHERE: The Gallows.
NOTES: be nice im new
WHAT: Fresh meat, slightly tainted.
WHEN: Drakonis!
WHERE: The Gallows.
NOTES: be nice im new
i. research workroom
He's an unobtrusive arrival—no rifts, no bear announcements. Overnight a desk in the Research workrooms that was previously unoccupied becomes occupied, first only by ink and blank paper and other small signs of life, and then, intermittently, by 6'4" of leanly muscled human, usually slightly damp. He spends most of his time there reading. Getting up to speed. He says hello and excuse me and, if asked, Ram Tjäder. Maybe Senior Warden if pressed. Enough syllables for an Ander accent to be obvious, at least.
It's only several days after he first appeared that he drops his current set of documents on his desk, abruptly, and asks whoever is there to be asked, "Do you know anything about Soldier's Peak? I heard that you went there. Some of you. A long time ago."
ii. the walls
There's no thunder, so he can't be out here hoping to be struck by anything. There are only sheets of rain and enough wind to slant them, all lit with the luminous grey that means the sun is up there behind the clouds somewhere. And Wolfram is dripping wet, facing out over the water toward the city, and trying to catch raindrops in the mouth of his flask.
Footsteps, or movement—either way, he's not cool enough or mesmerized enough not to startle. But he recovers from it smoothly enough, without dropping his flask over the side of the wall onto the rocks and waves below. And since he has someone to ask: "Do the mountains turn green?"
He would think so, with all of this rain. But he's heard, too, that Kirkwall is black and grey year round.
no subject
"Poor luck, they've both gone. And that will have been when we were still with the Inquisition. You might ask the Provost to write and request their records. It's possible they have more to hand."
Clatter clatter clatter. With the helpful strike of her knee, the two pieces of the parasol snap back together.
"What's on Soldier's Peak?"
no subject
"Not much now, I hope. But there was a Warden," he says, "and two hundred years of his research. They would not have left it behind."
If they had any sense. Which doesn't close off the possibility that his notes are mildewing in an abandoned keep in Ferelden as completely as he'd like, actually.
no subject
She takes up the parasol, clamping it's handle firmly in the grip of her prosthetic hand with a turn of the switch at its wrist, and makes to open and close the umbrella once or twice to be certain that it still functions. Presumably doing so indoors isn't bad luck in Thedas.
"—Remind me. Your name is Mister Jader?" Pronounced specifically without the T and umulat as if she's only heard it once.
no subject
"Warden," is a correction to the first part, before, "Tjäder," to the second. And, "But you can just call me Wolfram," is meant as a kindness to them both.
He shifts in his desk chair, turning sideways to uncurl from around his desk and stretch his legs out.
"And you are—"
A hesitation. At least she mispronounced his name first.
"Madame de Fonce," rhyming with sconce.
no subject
"Are you and Warden Ellis familiar with one another? He was to Weisshaupt not so long ago, but I wasn't under the impression that he'd meant to encourage anyone to come back with him."
Still. She has never known Wardens to not know one another.