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Entry tags:
[CLOSED] SHARE AND SHARE ALIKE
WHO: Tertia, Derrica, Redvers, Stephen Strange, Viktor, & Jayce
WHAT: Riftwatch delivers support and supplies to the People of the Silent Plains
WHEN: Early Kingsway
WHERE: The Silent Plains and the Hundred Pillars, the Tevinter Imperium
NOTES: OOC Info; please include content warnings in your subject lines if applicable.
WHAT: Riftwatch delivers support and supplies to the People of the Silent Plains
WHEN: Early Kingsway
WHERE: The Silent Plains and the Hundred Pillars, the Tevinter Imperium
NOTES: OOC Info; please include content warnings in your subject lines if applicable.
In the last days before Kingsway, a new face appears in the Gallows. Toma Cassel, hailing from Rivain, is in his late forties and has an unhurried air that sits at odds with a wiry, almost too-slim frame. If not for the sword and various armor fragments that communicate his once-association with the Templar Order, he might be an aging field hand or the lean kind of dock worker. He's straight forward about his presence here in Kirkwall—Riftwatch seems to have its head on the most straight, and he'd like to help where he can.
Four days later, a formal escort is assembled to see Cassel, a collection of (cheap but reasonably effective) weaponry scraped out of the Gallows' armory, some basic first aid supplies, and a stock of Research Division-devised supplies such as alchemical hand bombs, artificer's trap components, and Fade-touched poisons delivered safely across the Imperium's border where they might aid the People of the Silent Plains—a rebel faction lurking in the wilds of the Tevinter composed primarily of ex-enslaved.
The passage by griffon into Tevinter is uneventful, studded with a few nights of camping. Guided by Tertia, who is herself a member of the People, Riftwatch eventually successfully links up with a band of approximately twenty ex-enslaved rebels in the rolling, largely treeless plains which abuts Tevinter's southern border.
The group they meet is a mix of elves and humans, albeit (unsurprisingly) primarily the former. They're fairly ragtag—their equipment and supplies have largely been scavenged off Tevinter and Anders soldiers they've killed, or from raiding supply caravans on the roads. Given their cobbled together appearance, it's somewhat surprising that they're as organized and effective as they are. They've based their system of leadership off of Nocen Sea pirates (Tertia's not the only Flint and Silver fangirl in this group), with their general and lieutenant having been elected by general acclaim among their fellow rebels, and with anyone possessing the right to call a vote to oust or affirm those positions as they see fit.
Their current general is Irene, an elven woman in her 40s with shorn hair and sinewy muscle, a rigorous attentiveness that is kind but not nice, and a reputation for being a wanted criminal (having murdered her master). She keeps the People—of which these twenty are only a fraction—nomadic and mobile. They seem to have no permanent base, and part of the reason they've been as effective as they are is that they've perfected the ability to disappear and survive in the inhospitable landscape of the Silent Plains for long stretches of time.
Though guarded, Tertia has consistently written to the People about Riftwatch's decency and so they'll get plenty of benefit of the doubt. Hardcore survivalists, demonstrations of hospitality and comfort are lean and sparing. There is no anti-mage sentiment here; mages are so common in Tevinter that the People consider their enemy the magisters more than they do any mage. It speaks to the frank sensibility at play—an instinct that Riftwatch is playing to by delivering people and supplies geared to assisting their work of killing slavers and robbing supplies being moved to and from the occupied Marches.
During their time with the People, Riftwatch will be responsible for anything from helping to scramble together a training program for the People's less than martially adept members, hunting the lithe ruminants that populate the plain in order to make up for all these additional mouths to feed, repairing, improving and adapting equipment, and running the People's armorer through the various items that Riftwatch is providing. This is in part a diplomatic effort, and building relationships and trust is as important as handing over an armful of swords.
To that end, when news of a Tevinter military caravan passing through Hasmal and into Tevinter by way of a passage through the Hundred Pillar foothills reaches the temporary encampment, it's critical that Riftwatch join in the effort to overthrow the caravan. They'll be accompanied Cassel and roughly 10 members of the People's group, the most prominent of which are Salonae, a human woman in her late thirties with a wide mouth, a quick laugh, and a murderous knife, and Eryx, a young elven mage in his early twenties whose good looks and youthful sense of melodramatic ennui are both amplified by the scar that splits his forehead.
The caravan proves to be a long string of what appears to be loot from the war front, being escorted by what at first appears to be a debilitating number of Tevinter soldiers. But the People (and Riftwatch) have the landscape, a cache of new equipment and supplies, and the element of surprise on their side. With a little luck, it's just possible that they might find themselves on the winning side of the fight, and thus uncover the caravan's precious cargo.
jayce
open
Viktor is “busy” when Irene approaches to discuss the business of what exactly it is that Riftwatch’s Research division has supplied to her and her people. Jayce falls into autopilot as he goes over each item individually with a professional degree of enthusiasm and detachment, from the hand bombs to the alchemical traps and everything in-between, though he can’t quite conceal his unease when describing the lethal concoctions. Irene absorbs the information with chilling swiftness; he can see the gears turning behind her eyes, though she gives not a whit of deliberation away.
Otherwise, one might find him lending a hand where he can – in the repair, upkeep and adaptation of equipment or any task requiring physical strength, and other tasks less exciting but necessary for survival, like helping with meals. He does not help with hunting – he would only hold them back – and he is squeamish with the handling of the carcasses until the heads and innards have been removed. (By the end of this mission, less so.) This earns him a few side-glances, but the small tins of spices he’d brought as a mundane act of goodwill seem widely approved.
In another display of the People's pragmaticism, the bones are repurposed. One might find Jayce carving arrowheads from them after the People demonstrate and then elicit his help in doing so, on the outskirts of the camp so that the noise isn’t quite so bothersome.
Or perhaps it is their turn, Jayce and whoever else, to take the night-watch, in which case Jayce spends most of his time closer to the fire in order to read the single book he’s managed to sniff out here so far – not that he expects them in a nomad population – but goddamn does the night get boring real fast when you’re supposed to keep relatively quiet. When even that book has been read – twice, and he assured the worried owner of it that he would return it – Jayce finds himself desperate enough to socially engage for the sheer sake of distraction.
To whoever might be sitting ‘round the fire with him, he proposes passing the time with a game that requires no skill, no items or props, and no loudness in which they might disturb the slumber of others: the word association game. After explaining the basics (if needed), he starts with:
“Chip.”
a game;
Out of nowhere, across the low-burning fire: Chip.
"What?" He breaks his puzzled stare to frown at the drum gear in his hand, turns it over, "Where?"
no subject
—is not the first thought to cross his mind, but is infinitely easier to vocalize.
no subject
and then it clicks, and Viktor's entire carriage shows his realization in one ratcheted step of a slouch.
"Really? Now?"
no subject
He reaches for the cup of coffee at his feet; it is bitter, thick, and woefully lukewarm, but the act is performed solely to keep his embarrassment at bay.
no subject
Look at him over there, crumbling pathetically.
Viktor sighs.
He resumes fitting the gear to its simple frame, and when he says, "Wood," it sounds remarkably similar to Fine.
no subject
They're in the same camp sharing the same fire, but gods, how vast the distance between them feels. It's miserable, this deceptively thin friction between them; the burden has scratched and gnawed for days. He thumbs the side of the cup, then sets it down and rises.
Not to leave, but to sit -- beside Viktor, close enough to speak with each other in lowered voices amidst the gentle crackle of the fire, yet far enough to render casual contact anything but.
"Hey."
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"Is that your word?"
Where Jayce now sits is inoffensive, but that doesn't mean he's not getting picked on.
no subject
In other words: still crumbling pathetically, yes.
no subject
It's only brief, this oblique look, but their eyes do meet before it falls away.
As he returns to work on the mechanism, he doesn't say anything in reply—but the slowed movement of his hands leaves plenty of room in his attention for Jayce to occupy.
no subject
He’s grateful, at least, for the gadget holding Viktor’s gaze. It means Viktor doesn’t see his faltered starts — the small rise of his chest on the inhale, the unproductive parting of lips, the brief furrow to his brow, or the swallow that sounds so awkwardly loud to his own ears. It isn’t a new affair to disagree with one another, but the depth of this rift holds no precedence.
It feels like the strife upon the bridge, only this time the cacophony of anger, frustration, fire and smoke, and all that narrowly contained violence — it feels like it simmers within. Between, rather than against.
Most of it is displaced, he thinks, but the rest…
His gaze drops. “Look, what I said the other day… to make you leave the way you did.” He turns his head away, eyes closed. “It was shitty of me.”
no subject
To the untrained ear, it may seem as though he intends to leave it just so, no further discussion required. Jayce, on the other hand, may recognize this as further invitation to continue.
It's a position they've shared many times: Jayce tipping out some overflow of feeling while Viktor attends, patiently or otherwise. They've swapped places now and then, but compared to how infrequently Viktor seeks reassurance, Jayce seems insatiable. It's familiar this way, easy to wear almost without noticing, even when he himself is bent out of shape, and despite this aloof simmering, this narrowly contained strife, he is listening.
no subject
There is a note of resignation in his voice as he says, "I should be doing more. Living like I could die again at any moment, but I... I feel so small. Like it doesn't... matter that I'm alive again, and now we're..." Struggling to find the words, he eventually settles on a grimaced, "like this. I can't even maintain what we had."
They've always worked things out, their little disagreements -- but then, what choice did they have? Hextech was their shared dream, their project, theirs. They had to repair the cracks in the road to continue pursuing their ambition because they needed each other to succeed. Jayce had never before considered their partnership in this light until recently; in doing so, found the perspective to incite a terrible anxiety. To him, Viktor is irreplaceable. He would -- and has -- burned bridges for him.
But... what if that isn't the case for Viktor? Viktor collaborated with great minds and skilled hands to defy time and death, and succeeded. What has Jayce done in comparison? What if Viktor detests not only his decision to fight but his rapidly apparent insufficiency outside their realm of Hextech?
no subject
What Jayce describes is not so different from what he himself has been carrying since the moment his feet touched alien soil. Without their life's work, their dream, what is he? Nothing but a doomed man with no reason left to try—
"What we had is gone."
Jayce would be forgiven for hearing an admonishment in this; it's really the sound of Viktor steeled against his own words. It's like looking into a mirror and slapping himself. Through the sting, before Jayce's anxiety can grab this and run completely away with it,
"It was taken from us." He himself traded one precious piece of it away to cling to the scraps of another. He closes his eyes and goes on: "You're not a Councillor anymore, or the face of Hextech. Nothing is resting on your shoulders or relying on your reputation. You have no responsibility to anyone—not even me. You can do anything you want to do, now."
He now turns his eyes on Jayce, gleaming, flickering gold. The firelight cuts his cheeks sharp.
"Petrifying, isn't it."
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Smaller. Exposed.
“…yeah,” he says lamely, thumbs digging into their opposite palms. Uncertainty makes for an antsy body, heart thudding, neck warming, stomach churning. There is something in Viktor’s words — something there that he’s missed. He’s sure of it.
His eyes flicker between Viktor and the campfire. His hands twist tighter together. He gnaws the inside of his cheek.
Hesitantly, he says, “Have I… overstepped? Between us?”
no subject
Having needed no time at all to consider that answer, he instead takes the moment after it to think. The friction between them is too complex to lay definitive blame. Though being here has often felt to him like some kind of afterlife, when it comes down to it, Viktor only knows what it's like to be dying—not to die. What does that do to a person? No, overstepped isn't quite right...
"But you should make some other friends."
Even as the sole representative of home, he can't give Jayce everything he needs—not that he ever thought he could, but it's never been more clear to him than now. And without their work to bind them together, maybe... maybe they simply aren't compatible. Maybe bringing him back wasn't enough. Maybe nothing would be.
"Live, like you said. Rediscover who you are."
no subject
Or is this the consequence of years upon years of endurance for the sake of something greater?
A nervous chuckle slips past his lips. "Is this, um... your way of politely asking me to fuck off?"
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From the bridge of his nose his fingers spread across his eyelids, pressing, grasping the ridges of his own skull, seeking the soft valleys of his temples with finger and thumb, his palm like a mask, and for an all-too-fleeting moment he sits like that, arm across his belly, elbow propped in the crook of his wrist, holding his face.
He sighs,
then smears his hand sideways and off the ledge of his cheek.
"How are you still worried about that?"
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Here, his hands attempt to talk for him, but the frustrated motions conjure very little beyond highlighting his fluster. His arms lay to rest on his thighs in defeat.
"--you know what? I don't know what you're trying to tell me, talking about seeing other people and doing whatever I want like this is some sort of weird break-up." His palms turn upward, seeking. "Is this all really because I've chosen to learn how to defend myself?"
Is this a consequence of the magic that stole the memory of me from you? haunts the shadows of his mind because there isn't a goddamn thing Jayce can do about that, and that powerlessness is terrifying.
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Even his anger is charismatic. Viktor's anger, maybe less so.
"It is not some weird break-up," and his ears definitely aren't turning pink, "I'm just telling you what I think. If you don't want to hear what I have to say, don't come to me with your problems."
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(If Viktor detects a hint of projection, he would not be incorrect.)
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"Our friendship, as we knew it, is gone. Everything has changed. We'd be fools to go on pretending it hasn't."
Already predisposed to speaking low, as clear at a murmur or hiss as he is when he projects his voice, he hardly has to try to keep it down. One arm still rests across him, its hand now a fist, while the other pivots its gestures from the elbow.
"You're beating yourself up for failing to maintain something that's out of reach."
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“The next time my life needs saving, don’t.”
And he knows that it needed to be done - that there were other lives, lives more valuable than his own here that warranted salvage, but to have Viktor discard their friendship so impassively leaves a bitter aftertaste. There can’t be a third time Jayce owes his life to him. He can’t swallow that. He won’t.
But he will swallow down the nausea and the hurt, because where else is it go right now but deeper? He does and rises without another word, making his rounds a convenient excuse to leave the rot between.
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at a falling lilt, a note of offended surprise, follows him as he rises. That was uncalled for, it sounds like. That surprise is prying at the knot of Viktor's frown, but succeeds only in lifting it to a dismayed angle. Jayce turns away from him, and he unfolds his arms, leans to see him around the fire's halo, calls out to his back,
"Jayce."
Waits, still leaning expectantly, until he's gone.
As Viktor sinks back down, having had more than his fill of grief these weeks past, he spends not a moment indulging the distress churning in his cold and clenching guts; seconds into his slouch, he's cinching that knot tight again. Don't, he says. Don't, as if telling Viktor he can't or shouldn't do something isn't going to increase that thing's chances of being done exponentially. Idiot.
In a moment he'll snatch up the winch and briskly resume assembling it. He'll scowl the whole time. It will be finished in roughly six minutes. Tomorrow he will show someone how to hoist the tent modified to pair with it and significantly reduce the time required to set up or pack out.
Don't. Just who does Jayce think he's talking to?
stephen strange
open.
Instead, he’s primarily here as another mage and as a mundane healer to help a population run ragged after so much time living rough with few supplies. He helps bind sprained ankles, advises on infection, and shows them how to use supplies from the Research Expo to bind broken bones in casts (plaster! it’s great!). For eventual combat training, he pitches in with staff fighting, reproducing the drills he’d once learned at the temple in Kamar-Taj. It’s not a sword, but mages overwhelmingly use staves, so it’ll be handy regardless. He’ll offer Riftwatch some sparring as well; they can work off some energy by hitting each other with sticks, or simply watch and assess the People’s progress together.
Mostly, however, he spends his days with an elderly mage healer named Isca. The group can often see the two of them in intense conversation, hands gesticulating wildly, alternating who’s interrogating whom. Afterwards, Strange can be found sitting on a log and sifting through a pile of notes, trying to put the handwritten pages in some form of order, shuffling and rearranging them and muttering to himself.
And then, eventually: the nighttime raid. It’s a quicker clash than Starkhaven, and this time, unlike Granitefell, Tevinter has the trap closing shut around them. Strange joins the fray carrying a fiery axe summoned up from spirit energy, and he occasionally sends a blast of telekinesis at the soldiers. Partway through the fight, a gout of flame suddenly goes up in the undergrowth near him, a roar of fire lighting up the darkness. He finds himself having to move away from the heat; finds the shape of a compatriot where they were knocked down in the dirt, and reaches out to help haul them up.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
( Or feel free to wildcard! Normal Camping Stuff on the way to Tevinter also an option. )
tertia.
Stephen Strange with Tertia, and Cassel bunking with the other men. There’s little to worry about modesty when you’re simply collapsing on the floor of the tent in full travel attire, weary and aching from hours in griffonsaddle. The tents are the tents, it’s just where you lie down and pass out after a long day of travel, and he’s growing accustomed to roughing it.
Tonight he’s sitting outside on a nearby tussock, legs stretched out, winding down and wolfing down some food after the latest leg of their journey. For a fleeting wistful moment, he thinks of his feather-soft bed in a Manhattan penthouse: so many years and universes away.
And oh, there’s his roommate now.
Looking up from his sad little campfire dinner, Strange shoots Tertia a look.
“Looks like you’re stuck with me,” he says wearily, warily, “but I promise I don’t snore.”
no subject
She settles down beside the fire beside him. If she notices his wariness - and, in truth, it might well be hard not to - she gives no sign of it. She simply nods her greeting and tucks herself up into an even smaller bundle.
"I'll try not to make too much noise, Messere," she says, a promise that would almost come across as ironic if she weren't so earnest in her delivery. "Is there anything I can prepare in the tent for you?"
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But now that they’re no longer in that frenzy of battle and adrenaline and blood on the field and burning up Tevinter soldiers, Strange finally has the time to stop and notice the honorific which keeps slipping into her speech. The faintest wince passes over his face at her offer.
“No, and— you really don’t have to call me messere, you know. Feels weird. You can just call me Strange, or if you’re itching for a title, then doctor will do.” But turnabout is fair play, and so he adds: “And is ‘Tertia’ alright, for you? Didn’t exactly have time to examine formalities last time.”
no subject
But she does clamp her teeth on it with some success. (And somewhere, somewhere distant and silenced, she feels a little flare of frustration. To insist on a more intimate term of address is to insist on more intimacy. What has this human - any human - ever done to earn that from her? Why does he act like he's any more trustworthy than any of the others, who turn on you and use the fact that you got too familiar, on their demand, against you? It's so arrogant. Assuming that he's different from the rest.)
"That's what people usually call me. Yes." She starts to remove her boots, her feet weary from the long day of marching. "And I'm sorry."
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While Tertia peels off her boots to get ready for settling in, he does the same by unfastening his cloak; it’s not the same battered and slightly-singed red cloak she’d seen him wearing at Starkhaven but something nicer, silk, with an odd sensation at the edge of their magical senses. Like the faintest prickling of static electricity.
He smooths out the fabric over his knees, starts to fold it up, then hesitates. “Do you think there’s any risk in using Fade-touched silk as a pillow?” he asks apropos of nothing, brow crinkling in thought. “I was going to bundle it up and shove it under my head, but I now realise that keeping it so close to my face while I sleep might be— unwise.”
redvers.
They’ve seen enough of each other on this trip to nod hello, exchange a few words over meals, focusing on the logistics and plans for the People. Strange has avoided any I told you so about their first conversation, instead falling back on the crisp professional respect of working colleagues. He suspects they didn’t get off on the right foot— but join the club, because neither did he and Tony.
“Are there any prybars?” he asks. “I could blow this open with a spell, probably, but that seems unwise.” They don’t know what’s in here.
me!
"Prybar," he says. "No."
If they're starting over, though, saying that magic is an unwise choice in a particular situation is a good way to do it. As good a way as someone with magic could hope for, with him. That and the absence of that told you so.
So no isn't the end of it. He drops the burlap sack—full of silver cups and plates and candlesticks—over the side of the wagon to land on the ground beside one of its broken wheels, and reevaluates the contents of his wagon. If he were a prybar—
"What about an axe?"
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And he jolts a little at the sound of that musical cling cling clank of metal and silver all landing on the ground at once, sack rolling over in the dirt. “I feel like a highway robber,” he admits, glancing over at the other wagon’s haul. The sorcerer evidently likes the sound of his own voice, since he’ll talk into the night air, but he keeps that conversation amiably rolling along: “Like brigands looting a caravan. Never thought I’d see the day.”
jayce & viktor.
A win feels good, after everything.
The People of the Silent Plains have their reunions, arms clapping around each other, and the wounded are brought to Isca after their preliminary triage from Strange. There’s conversations to be had, important discussions to settle next steps for the enemy soldiers.
And Strange has some discussions of his own in mind. He directs one very particular wagon to be brought over to their corner of the camp, citing that Riftwatch has the experience and know-how to examine it. Not living perpetually on the move, not having to spend all their energy on simply surviving— Riftwatch has had the time to gather supplies and knowledge and, well, it’s time to summon the experts.
“Viktor? Jayce?” he calls out.
no subject
As Viktor emerges from his tent, his enthusiasm is tempered not least by the effort it takes to rouse himself—his little bell charm is working overtime out here—and his own grim view of the returning party's mission, but he is relieved to hear the doctor's voice, and it shows.
"You're back," obviously, but it's a nice thing to point out, "and only somewhat the worse for wear." Probably less necessary to imply he looks terrible, but that's fellowship. "What do you have?"
To him it seems unlikely Strange is just here to say hello.
no subject
Such thoughts pass through Jayce's mind as he mindfully steps along the periphery of the reunions, seeking the other Riftwatch members for debriefing and instruction, if any, whilst avoiding intentional intrusion on the grief, anger, and whatever else exchanged between the once-enslaved. Strange's voice acts as a beacon, redirecting Jayce with a wary curiosity. He saw the amber glow of fire in the distance; he smells the smoke on their persons now.
On arrival, he catches the tail end of Viktor's response. A cursory glance over Strange's person prompts Jayce to unlatch the waterskin from his belt and offer it to him as he listens.
no subject
“That wagon. It’s—”
A pause, a glance over the rest of the campsite, making sure they’re not close enough to be eavesdropped on. It’s an unnecessary check: the People are coalescing around their injured like blood clotting around a wound, flocking back to their leader, reuniting with their own. And in terms of loot, the food and weapons and valuables were more immediately of interest.
Except.
The sorcerer moves to the wagon, heaves off one of the lids of the crates, and stands aside so the other two men can take a look. There are six crates in the wagon, carefully packed with straw. Each crate holds a stone fragment of varying size and dimensions, each inlaid with ribbons of patterned metals.
He tips a shoulder into a shrug: “I might not be surrounded by arcane artifacts at the Sanctum Sanctorum any longer, but I know magic doohickeys when I see them. What do you make of it? Presumably it’s not a delivery for some magister’s decorative zen garden.”
no subject
As Strange lifts the crate's lid away, he slopes up alongside it, leans in to see.
"Likely not... but let's not rule anything out." Zen means nothing to him, but surely decorative gardens, and the eclectic appetites of many who keep them, are universal. Presently, being himself unsuited to heaving around slabs of wood, he pushes back the lid of the next crate to take a look inside. "These appear to be fragments."
He could ask if they're safe to touch, but why would he do that when he can just reach in and grab this thing—
no subject
"Do you mind if we set them on the ground?" he asks, the question directed primarily at Strange. "They look like puzzle pieces."
Assuming an affirmative, he'll do the heavy lifting.
no subject
And the fact that they don’t hesitate to start examining and touching the stones is part of why he likes these two so much: they’re all cut from the same cloth, the sort of people who can’t wait to sink their teeth into unexplained magical phenomena.
“Please do.” Strange moves aside as Jayce hops up into the wagon and starts to reach into the crates, hefting out the fragments.
He’s bad at the political part of this, but after a moment, he makes sure to mention: “I didn’t want it to seem like we were stealing supplies from the People. No one could work out what the hell these things were on the field, so I told them that we’re good at this particular type of research; that we have an entire working division accustomed to studying magical artifacts, and so we were going to take a look. Hopefully try to figure it out for them.”
The shared understanding: that there was no chance of squirrelling away an entire wagon unnoticed, but it’s their expertise buying them a seat at the table, giving them the room to investigate here.
no subject
As he moves out of the way, he says, "I suggest you first lay a few of those lids down as a working surface."
This is distinctly an instruction couched as suggestion. Does it fall under the category of Yeah, No Shit? Almost certainly.
To the doctor, then: "We'll figure it out." He's releasing the grip of his crutch, turning the fragment over in both hands in search of distinguishing features—some pattern in the inlays, perhaps—any sign of prior use— "Whether we can achieve that out here remains to be seen."
no subject
Crouched next to the pieces, he lifts one here, another there, holding them up to another, considering. When he finds two pieces of stone whose inlays appear continuous, he thinks this might just be a little inconvenient to hold together while trying to match the rest. Lifting his head, he cocks a brow at Viktor in silent query.
no subject
but, still, Strange can’t resist peering over as they start to move the pieces and lay them out on the lids as a makeshift worktable. Even as they work, he finds his gaze drifting between both Jayce and Viktor. He doesn’t know either of the two men well, but they’ve spent months in the same workroom and he’s vaguely accustomed to what they’re normally like: finishing each others’ sentences, that automatic ebb-and-flow of two people who work well together. And this time, the vibes are weird. Strange isn’t an expert in interpreting other people or reading those silent looks, but even he can tell that the vibes are weird. The urge is there to simply rip off the band-aid, ask what the hell is up with you two, but instead he keeps his attention on the artifact and opts for the more tactful:
“Do the patterns match? I never had the patience for jigsaw puzzles.”
no subject
Of the patterns, he says, "That does seem likely."
As Jayce crouches there, Viktor holds the piece of stone nearer his face—this isn't an irritation tactic, he simply wants him to take it. "Look for wear marks, too—like this edge, here. They may be faint." This one, at least, is very faint.
no subject
"Sure," he says, a casual, throw-away remark to avoid too-long of a silence on his end, though he thinks the suspected pattern is of greater diagnostic value -- but as he keeps an eye out for both factors, and does indeed show, through the rearranging of pieces, that there is a pattern -- the pieces remain individual.
derrica
ota / camping ft special guest star.