faderift | Coping Methods

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Coping Methods | Open

WHO: Obi-Wan Kenobi and whomever shall encounter him
WHAT: Obi-Wan hangs about Skyhold
WHEN: Since his arrival at Skyhold through Drakonis
WHERE: Skyhold Library and also Some random battlements action
NOTES: None yet

1 | A Quiet, Well-Lit Place
The Inquisition Library was a curious thing. He was use to holos and databases, searchable by voice or material input, by keyword and title and author and a thousand other small conveniencs that managed, one after the other, to strie him at the worst of times. It was strange, to realize how privileged even the meanest peasant on the farthest Rim planet was, by comparison to this-- to the idea of something you needed being just at your fingertips, but so easily misplaced.

He wasn't even sure if the book he was looking for existed, let alone in a language he could be gauranteed of understanding. Translation technology was more lacking than common index, and his communicator, which might have helped, was little more than salvage.

After a time, Obi-Wan simply sighed, rubbed at the bridge of his nose, and put his latest selection away-- as unsuitable as the last. Clearly Materials Enhancement: The Enchanting Art of Lyrium was going to be of no use to him. Perhaps to anyone!

What in the world was Lyrium, anyways?

2 | The Truth Between
There were a lot of jokes made about Jedi and meditation.

Most of them were grounded in truth. For example, that Jedi were so inneffectual that they responded to ever crisis by taking a nap. Not that Obi-Wan was sleeping, despite appearances. He's sat, cross-legged, and very still, just on the edge of the parapet overlooking the peaceful goings-on of the courtyard below on one hand, and wide, wild view of the mountains on the other. The tower wall at his back provides some shelter, both from the wind, and from other people, but by and large he is quite exposed-- and, seemingly, unconcerned about this fact.

Actually, maybe he is sleeping. He hasn't moved in a long time, his eyes are closed, why, anyone could just come right up and--

"May I help you?"

...or not.

3 | Synecdoche
The Lightsaber was spread out in pieces on the table by the window. It was a lovely antique, this window, beautifully made with thick, bubbly glass in beautifully cut shapes depicting... Something, surely. Obi-Wan would likely have needed a more than passing understanding of the local religions to have said exactly what. Regardless, it was the brightest place in the tower, at this hour, with the sun streaming in to illuminate the exposed guts of his once-functional lightsaber.

The casing was cracked, of course, and several connections severed, one or two slagged beyond simple repair-- they'd need re-insulating and solder at best, and to be replaced outright, at worst. He was hoping, praying in a way, for the former. A replacement of sufficient purity and delicate construction would be hard to find in a society that viewed a blacksmith's anvil as a suitable tool for weapon-construction. And the insulating rings around the power supply weren't in their best shape either. It was a miracle the crystal wasn't cracked!

But it wasn't.

There it stood, sparkling in a beam of sunlight, glowing faintly with its own inner purity, a beautiful blue Kyber Crystal, perfectly cut in one lovely hexagonal spar. It was no longer than his thumbnail, and there was no doing without it-- thank the Force that it had survived where so much else had failed. Obi-Wan sighed, and went back to his inventory of parts, so engrossed in his work that he was for once ignorant of any observer's eye.

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"That is a familiar sound." Adelaide murmured, pausing from where she was passing by, arms laden with books and papers, ink and pen curled in one hand, pot of tea still steaming in the other. As one that had made the same sigh herself, the sigh of one searching and not finding and getting frustrated with such things, there was a wash of sympathy to her eyes. Familiarity could only offer so much with such works.

When was was thoroughly unfamiliar? It made it doubly difficult.

"What are you failing to find, or rather what is refusing to be found?" Quiet (it is a library, after all) her Orlesian accent low and warm, wryly amused.

Things one usually finds when climbing up the walls of Skyhold: loose stone, loose tiles, maybe some rotting wood or the odd nest, sometimes an angry raven that pecks at your fingers before it flaps off in a huff.

Usually not a person. Unless she's the first one up and helping a learner over the last hurdle.

It's her left hand, the one marked by the shard that pats then recoils quickly before her face pops up, one brow raised in surprise, the apology quick on her lips. "Forgive me, señor, I didn't see you."

Wandering the battlements and ramparts is a regular occurrence for Kain, who doesn't go a day without some time spent up there. He's always had a fondness for heights, and there's no better place for some solitude. No better place to relax and gather his thoughts.

Though today as he wanders to find a good area to settle in, he notices someone else has beat him to it, with a similar idea. He's about to pass by and go find somewhere else when the man talks. Maybe he's not so out of it as he seemed.

"I was just... passing through. I wasn't expecting to see anyone else here."

The library is a common haunt of Morrigan's, though she descends from the rookery this time though not a single soul would have seen her enter. The benefits to not being confined to a singular form. She watches for a moment, accustomed enough to both libraries to know the most familiar faces that change little between visits before she approaches with a quiet ruffling of feathers.

"That might be a sensible choice, given the...situation we find ourselves in," she drawls, sounding faintly amused the way she so often does. Better than anger regarding the current state of things she supposes, taking a glance at the book. Enchanting is an avenue she cares for little but lyrium? Well, an entirely separate matter.

Who knows what the Red Templars might have to hand at any given moment after all, not all of them can be devoted to the same area of study as she reaches for a faded green tome a few books down, A Catalog of Elven Relics, shoved back in the wrong section but she's going to have need it of soon, of that she has no doubt.

"If you seek something in particular, you are able to make requests for new volumes to be sent directly to Skyhold."

Obi-Wan turns to her with a momentary expression of surprise; despite his frustration, he had been trying not to disturb. Too late for that, at least.

"I'm looking for information on material tolerances and availability. I have a vital project at hand that requires materials with specific properties, though not in any great quantity," He threw one hand aside, as if to say and so you see my problem, despite the apologetic smile, "I haven't been making much headway. And what little I have found uses entirely different terminology. The search continues."

"Mmm. What is the purpose of your material?" Knowing that can point them in the right direction. Occasionally for the proper answer one must sort out what the right question ought to be- which is a trial in and of itself on occasion. Adelaide sets her books down as well as the kettle, peering at the books he'd been searching through.

"And what will you need it to do?"

"No trouble at all," Obi-Wan replies, unbending enough to offer a helping hand, "I was looking for an isolated spot, but it seems I'm not the first to find it."

That means you, miss. This is your spot, isn't it?

"Unless you mind sharing?"

"Neither did I," Obi-Wan explains, kindly, "I was meditating, but I can find somewhere else, if I'm disturbing you habits."

There are so many people, in this keep, and in Skyhold as a whole, that they are living as much on top of one another as any crowded borough in lower Coruscant. It is inevitable that with so many, so new, and only so much space, that there will be conflict and overlap.

He unfolds his legs, ready to stand.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi Master. And you are?"

Kain shrugs, not really minding the interruption. It's not as if he's in any particular rush at the moment, anyway, and anyone of a like mind for solitary activities can't be so bad. "It's all right... I don't blame you for coming here for such a thing. It's more peaceful up here than anywhere else."

He glances off to the distance for a moment, then back to Obi-Wan. "I'm Kain Highwind, dragoon. I'm afraid I've not heard of a Jedi Master, though. Is that a style of fighting?" In his armor, Kain would definitely appear to be a warrior type, and naturally that's where his first thought goes with that.

"I hardly know what to request," He replies, kindly. A man who can't acknowledge his own weaknesses can hardly improve upon them, "And I'm beginning to think I have no business looking for myself. Though, I haven't identified a dedicated Librarian or archivist on duty."

It didn't help that half the few materials references he found named things so strange or potentially esoteric that Obi-Wan couldn't identify them. What was Dawnstone, Lyrium, or Silverite? So many things, just familiar enough to be sure that they likely weren't the same. And how could he ask the Quartermaster for what he needed, when he had no idea what to ask?

"However, thank you, for the advice. I may yet need it."

"I know," Alistair says sympathetically on the heels of that sigh.

His distaste for books is usually exaggerated—he's not stupid, he's actually rather grateful for and proud of his education, and when he understands why something matters he can suppress his impulses to never sit still and never shut up long enough to read about it—but, still, he isn't often here. If he does use a library, it's usually the one downstairs, with the cobwebs and poor lighting and the books too crumbled to display this proudly.

Lately he isn't often in Skyhold at all, either. That he is here—in Skyhold, in the library—has nothing to do with book and everything to do with the rookery overhead. He's trying to work up the nerve to go make Leliana talk to him. ('Make.' He can't make her do anything.)

But he looks and sounds relatively careless, for a man with circles beneath his eyes and the Old Gods' song in his head, slouched and sitting on the edge of a table rather than a chair.

"I keep saying we should burn them all," he goes on, "but no one listens."

"I have to complete some repairs... A mix. But the most pressing are heat-resistant, non-conductive materials, suitable for a strong, inflexible casing. But it cannot be brittle," He moved his hands, as he explained, outlining through gesture the general size and shape of a lightsaber, "Ideally, I'd also need some reinforcing solder or plascrete paste, but I don't even know what-- well."

He indicated the enchanting book's spine, at this, "Certainly some topics are more represented than others."

Edited 2016-03-14 01:36 (UTC)

"You will want a comparison of ores, then, and the alloys made of them- one moment." She leans away from the table to wave at one of the oddly serene individuals that lingered and worked about the Library, marked with a brand in the center o their forehead. A few murmured words in Orlesian are exchanged, the individual's voice flat and toneless before they bowed and slipped away. "While I cannot promise a complete chart, most of the descriptions of what can be found ought to give you a place to start. The solder, however, you might find better luck speaking with the smiths in the Undercroft."

Edited 2016-03-14 01:42 (UTC)

"It's an organization," Obi-Wan replies, a little weary. So many people, and not a flicker of recognition in any of them. The idea of home had never seemed so far away, "A monastic order. And your... Dragoon?"

"All knowledge has value," Obi-Wan replies, dryly amused, despite his personal aggravation, "Those who burn books, however frustrating those books may be, tend not to come out on the good side of history."

He glances over at Alistair and then immediately turns more fully, pulled sharply by a sense of... Something. Something crawling, dark, and wrong, subtly discordant. It's small, really, but lingers at the edge of his perception like tinnitus, ringing.

"I don't believe we've been introduced," He tries, kindly enough. Though, the man does look tired, "Are you alright?"

"Thank you," He replied, following the progress of the Tranquil with a puzzled glance, "I'll do just that."

He's distracted now, wondering how he could have missed it. The tranquil were strange, little pools of utter serenity in the Force, like droplets of incongruous soundlessness in a crowded room. It struck him as dangerous, somehow, in the way that a sudden local silence heralds the passage of a predator through the forest.

And now that he was aware of it, they seemed to be everywhere.

"Is there anything I can do for you? I'm sure you must have had better things to do with your time than take care of one lost Rifter in the Library."

"He is Tranquil." An answer for the unasked question. "One of the few in Skyhold. They do best with a purpose- as such they tend to the library. Here they are able to work and remain untroubled by...those that might bother them."

Those that might take advantage; but there was only so much ugliness she could bear to introduce someone to in one conversation. Her eyes followed him for a long moment, an old pain lingering only to be brushed aside by a muffled nudge of Compassion's attention. A question was asked, it needs answering. "Answer a few questions of my own, if you would? You are a rifter, recently arrived, yes?"

"Yes, I arrived during the recent foray into Emprise du Leon," His pronunciation was carefully correct, "As such, it seems everyone has their questions."

He's going to have to once again explain what a Jedi is, Obi-Wan can see it coming. But that much will come after introductions.

"I'll answer whatever I can, Miss...?"

"Councilor." A simple enough correction. "Councilor Adelaide LeBlanc of the Inquisition's Council of Magi."

Better that than healer, enchanter, or Lady- though the last was one she would heave to embrace in time. "The worlds you come from are strange, the shards more so, your manner of arrival concerning. My questions are less of your world and more of your hand."

Yes, he'd thought that question may be coming next. He certainly understands the feeling of having to explain himself, he's been doing it for months now. Being a rifter never ends, and he'd noticed the other man has the distinctive glowing shard... which is usually a rifter thing.

"Dragoons are a knight class where I'm from, warriors that take to the air for our attacks. The wind truly is our element more than any other." He sighs, thinking of home always gives him mixed feelings. "I haven't seen you around yet... did you arrive here recently?"

"Councilor LeBlanc," He repeats in turn, with immediate respect, "I am Obi-Wan Kenobi, Master Jedi of the Order of the Jedi."

And that last, he wasn't expecting. Very few seem to ask, the shards of anchor made almost mundane by familiarity, and the sheer number of Rifters. Obi-Wan lifts his hand, inquiringly, and despite the glove, and the armor, some green still leaks around the edges. He has no doubt that, as in the Emprise, it could penetrate right through without impediment, at needs.

"This hand, I presume? I'll do what I can."

"Master Kenobi." The name feels strange in her mouth, but she makes the best attempt at it that she can, Khenohbi. "I am doing what research I can on the shards and how they effect those that carry them."

With Sina as a patient, she feels her fears are well founded. Her eyes narrow somewhat at the glove, the glow, and she extends a hand to him. There is a weight of interest beyond her own, Compassion terribly curious as well, enough to lend a faint glow to her eyes. "May I?"

To answer, Obi-Wan unsnapped the handguard and let it hang from its clasp, then stripped the glove off, to hang from his belt. The hand underneath was free from scars, but marked by calluses earned in saberwork and on the yokes of speeders and starships. He offered his bare hand to her, and the glowing shard of light, brows lifted in open inquiry.

"It's not painful," he said, quietly, the atmosphere gone suddenly hushed between them, lit with the bright, close greed of shardlight, "At least, not anymore."

Despite her newly-Human appearance and despite years of training to behave as a Human, Ariadne could never resist her natural, Alastrian instincts to climb. She still slept in the trees, gifting whatever bed someone tried to make for her to someone more in need. She still always felt safest in the high places. And, from time to time, when she felt the old urge to fly, she would leap from one rooftop to the next, if only to feel the wind on her face.

At least she knew better than to indulge in that last habit during the day.

Which is how she landed with a soft thud on the tower behind a strange man she'd never seen before. She picked up his scent, making him for a Human.

She'd never seen a Human sleeping upright like that before.

Carefully, using her palm to steady her, she crept down the slanting roof of the tower to get a better look.

"No," he says, "I'm Alistair."

And, look, in his defense, it isn't only a dad joke. It works on multiple levels. At least two. The dad joke level and the level where being who and what he is and being alright are, apparently, inherently mutually exclusive conditions. Very deep.

"And until you've been made to copy passages out of something called Essential Tomes for the Painfully Devout, I'm not going to give your opinion any weight. No offense, Ser—?"

Ser Likely Not Of This World. But not necessarily. Some of the locals have the glowy hand thing as well, these days.

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Coping Methods | Open

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