“You’re the first Qunari I’ve ever met,” Strange says, forthright, his posture straightening a little against the desk. Neither Loxley nor Vlast around the Gallows really counted; their current shapes weren’t their own, and they weren’t part of the culture. “So, apologies if advance if I’m just a world of questions.”
But there was one thing she’d mentioned —
“The Imperium tested on you? What, like magical experimentation?”
He’s aware there might be a language barrier, a cultural barrier, preventing him from fully following, but he’s still locked in.
"Seheron is three hundred years at war," Longer, if you look past the Qun. "We are near mainland. Not so far to send new ideas, new weapons. Many elves. Many runaways. If local is hurt, this does not cost so much as citizen, yes?"
“True.” Sure sounds like a war crime. And so Strange smooths out his face, tries to shed some of that perpetual sardonic humour in his voice.
“And so even after having been experimented on with magic, you’re still fine doing your own magical experimentation and research? Not just staying as far from it as—” humanly possible, shit, he keeps tripping over his idioms. Elvenly possible?
"Someone must." You can turn the other way, but nothing disappears. Only sneaks up. "Your people, they would not make you go to Rift. And still you do this."
But in that particular circumstance, nobody else can do it—
His first reflexive words die on the tip of his tongue, perspective snapping into place. Ability, duty, responsibility. If I don’t do it, then who will? So after a moment, Strange nods, some more understanding dawning. One hand gestures, indicating that glint of green in his palm: “Just curious. Have you ever seen one of these before coming here?”
They’re just starting to tinker with the realisation that Tevinter has their own shard-bearers; it makes sense that not everyone in the entire world will have managed to make their way to Kirkwall. So he wonders, still. The woman’s from further afield than he’s used to.
For all Strange’s sheer eagerness and enthusiasm to discuss these topics and to dive headfirst into them, there’s a palpable resistance when she reaches for his hand — the doctor almost reflexively jerks backward to prevent it from happening — but it’s a heartbeat, a stutter, before he consciously loosens his stiff posture and holds out his hand and lets her examine it.
The scars aren’t part of the anchor.
“It does, but slowly,” he says. Clipped, professional, as if he’s giving a lecture on a distant topic rather than discussing the thing in his own hand. “We know it grows internally. I take the occasional exterior measurement, but mine’s not much visibly grown on the outside; millimeters, for now. I’ve had mine about two years.”
Strange snorts a small laugh, thinking of fortune-tellers and two-bit gimmick psychics fleecing tourists.
“If I do,” he says, gamely, “I suspect it’s just a mental tic. Like when you step through cobwebs and you’re itching afterward, thinking you can still feel the spiders crawling all over you. Phantom sensations. The growth itself is slow and subtle enough that it isn’t strictly noticeable. What’s more apparent is the throb of pain when there’s a rift nearby, or an area of significant veil instability. It twinges, then.”
Also after ingesting a large amount of lyrium, but maybe let’s not mention that part.
"Maybe way to measure," The thinness of Veil. "If pain does not sign growth."
If its incautious use doesn't swell the thing to danger.
"Draw edge as you feel it," Phantom or otherwise. Her index finger lifts, a compass point hovering above skin, then slowly outward. Drawn. That grip must have betrayed the tremor. "Tell me when this is too far."
There is something oddly familiar about this, the tables disorientingly turned, the doctor made patient once more: Strange remembers conducting patellar reflex tests, tapping tendons with rubber mallets. Checking the nerves, testing for numbness, seeing where the pain stops and ends, finding out how far the damage goes. There are enough similarities: the sliver itself makes the flesh numb.
“When,” he says, watching the track of Sennara’s hand, once her index finger reaches the point he’s mapped himself.
“I must stress, though, that this is imprecise. Without, y’know, chopping off one’s hand to measure it more reliably.”
Fingers pinch air, estimating a measurement. Committing the number to ether. When she sets his hand down, it's not to bruise or to baby. She rocks back on her ass, pulls legs up criss-cross onto the cabinet.
"Good test repeats," Not amputation. (He does have two hands —) "You think others agree? To measure."
Imprecise matters less, with more to draw upon; points to smooth a curve. He'd already hear of any anomalies, but this could pair with the other one's work. Viktor. If they hope to disguise energy, the anchors are a place to begin.
“Hm.” Real consideration, then, head cocked and mulling over what she’s suggesting.
“So you’re picturing, say: institute regular checkups for shard-bearers, get out a ruler and take note of where they subjectively feel like the shard ends? Track the progress inasmuch as we can?”
"Why not?" A true question. Her people wouldn't ask; the expectations are different here. "Do this every month, maybe every few months. Or after close to rift. I say I help, but this makes it suspicious."
“Why not,” Strange says after a moment, an exhale, and it sounds both like a response to the suspicion and her suggestion as a whole. Willing hands are willing hands.
“I know you have limited organisational access,” might as well be upfront about what they both know rather than pretending otherwise, “but I can’t see how ruler measurements could be privileged information.”
“It does. I’m sure he was pleased to discuss it.” And she’s newly with Research, so— there’s some genuine warmth in Strange’s own smile as he says, “Glad to be working with you on this, Sennara.”
The doctor’s easy to steer: just be intellectually curious and eager to work on esoteric magical problems, and you’re halfway there.
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portalling) wrote2022-04-02 01:17 pm
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no subject
But there was one thing she’d mentioned —
“The Imperium tested on you? What, like magical experimentation?”
He’s aware there might be a language barrier, a cultural barrier, preventing him from fully following, but he’s still locked in.
no subject
Is that a joke? That's probably a joke. Ha ha.
"Seheron is three hundred years at war," Longer, if you look past the Qun. "We are near mainland. Not so far to send new ideas, new weapons. Many elves. Many runaways. If local is hurt, this does not cost so much as citizen, yes?"
no subject
“And so even after having been experimented on with magic, you’re still fine doing your own magical experimentation and research? Not just staying as far from it as—” humanly possible, shit, he keeps tripping over his idioms. Elvenly possible?
“—as possible.”
no subject
no subject
His first reflexive words die on the tip of his tongue, perspective snapping into place. Ability, duty, responsibility. If I don’t do it, then who will? So after a moment, Strange nods, some more understanding dawning. One hand gestures, indicating that glint of green in his palm: “Just curious. Have you ever seen one of these before coming here?”
They’re just starting to tinker with the realisation that Tevinter has their own shard-bearers; it makes sense that not everyone in the entire world will have managed to make their way to Kirkwall. So he wonders, still. The woman’s from further afield than he’s used to.
no subject
A chopping noise in her teeth.
"Does it grow?"
no subject
The scars aren’t part of the anchor.
“It does, but slowly,” he says. Clipped, professional, as if he’s giving a lecture on a distant topic rather than discussing the thing in his own hand. “We know it grows internally. I take the occasional exterior measurement, but mine’s not much visibly grown on the outside; millimeters, for now. I’ve had mine about two years.”
no subject
"Long life line," Wry. "When it spreads, you feel this?"
That internal growth, a spiderweb of magic winding into meat.
no subject
“If I do,” he says, gamely, “I suspect it’s just a mental tic. Like when you step through cobwebs and you’re itching afterward, thinking you can still feel the spiders crawling all over you. Phantom sensations. The growth itself is slow and subtle enough that it isn’t strictly noticeable. What’s more apparent is the throb of pain when there’s a rift nearby, or an area of significant veil instability. It twinges, then.”
Also after ingesting a large amount of lyrium, but maybe let’s not mention that part.
no subject
If its incautious use doesn't swell the thing to danger.
"Draw edge as you feel it," Phantom or otherwise. Her index finger lifts, a compass point hovering above skin, then slowly outward. Drawn. That grip must have betrayed the tremor. "Tell me when this is too far."
no subject
“When,” he says, watching the track of Sennara’s hand, once her index finger reaches the point he’s mapped himself.
“I must stress, though, that this is imprecise. Without, y’know, chopping off one’s hand to measure it more reliably.”
(Please don’t.)
no subject
"Good test repeats," Not amputation. (He does have two hands —) "You think others agree? To measure."
Imprecise matters less, with more to draw upon; points to smooth a curve. He'd already hear of any anomalies, but this could pair with the other one's work. Viktor. If they hope to disguise energy, the anchors are a place to begin.
no subject
“So you’re picturing, say: institute regular checkups for shard-bearers, get out a ruler and take note of where they subjectively feel like the shard ends? Track the progress inasmuch as we can?”
Which is not very well, but…
no subject
no subject
“I know you have limited organisational access,” might as well be upfront about what they both know rather than pretending otherwise, “but I can’t see how ruler measurements could be privileged information.”
no subject
A wide, split smile. She hops down.
"I speak a little to Viktor of this. Of measuring magic," The thaumoscope, the Rifts. She lifts a hand in little loop. "It draws together."
🎀?
The doctor’s easy to steer: just be intellectually curious and eager to work on esoteric magical problems, and you’re halfway there.