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portalling) wrote2022-04-02 01:17 pm
portalling) wrote2022-04-02 01:17 pm
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from 4 cloudreach / april 4th.
action; backdated to ... sometime in the last few months, look, they're both busy men
overharrowed
2023-07-04 11:20 pm (UTC)(link)
Among the things Julius is looking forward to after returning from the many glimpses of rifters' worlds, "discussing Tranquility" is not high on the list. That said, he's not ungrateful that Strange let it go in the moment. And he'd meant it, when he said he didn't mind discussing it. He doesn't, really, any more than discussing any other complex Circle topic. It's something that rifters who use magic, especially, deserve to be aware of in a fuller way than they're likely to encounter in writing.
He's enough work to keep his hands full when they get back that it takes him some time to find a free moment. But when he does, he has a list of likely places to check, the library and the Research offices chief among them.
He's enough work to keep his hands full when they get back that it takes him some time to find a free moment. But when he does, he has a list of likely places to check, the library and the Research offices chief among them.
Something’s happened. Julius is on the crystal saying there was an attack, and it was bad.
Are you near the infirmary?
Are you near the infirmary?
Edited (oop ) 2023-07-22 21:25 (UTC)
[As promised, a thick sheaf of papers is crammed into Strange's assigned pigeon hole in the dining hall. The topmost note reads—]
[The suggested reports refer to the following files that can be found among Riftwatch's records:
- The Blood Plague - 9:44
- A Survey of Rifters Arrival Sites - 9:44
- Further Surveys - 9:47, with a brief summary of the arcane mechanical principles behind the ARRIVED network.
The remainder of the packet details (in highly anonymized, broadly academic language) the amputation of Wysteria's arm and the dissection notes taken afterward.
In summary, anchor put down roots along the limbo's vascular system and the veins and vessels of the limb crystalized since the arm's removal. Rather than a foreign object implanting in the body, the flesh of the arm itself appears to have been undergoing a process of arcane transmutation.
When exposed to refined and red lyrium, the anchor and limb initially showed no immediate reaction. However prolonged exposure saw that lyrium drawn to the severed end of the limb where it attached and appeared to expand or multiply seemingly in an effort to reconstruct the body the limb was once attached to. This progressed for roughly two days before the residual arcane energies of the anchor faded and the lyrium reconstruction faded prior to forming a full upper arm/shoulder/so on.
Further related observations of the original host (aka Wysteria) in particularly significant fade-touched environments (aka the Crossroads) suggest the removal of the arm has somehow stabilized the Rifter host's physical manifestation in Thedas. Where Rifters ordinarily take on certain physical traits whole traveling in those places, since the loss of the limb the host no longer exhibits those traits in a fashion similar to a native Thedosian.
In addition to the self-autopsy report, there is a brief series of notes theorizing how a Rifter might be affected by exposure to raw lyrium. Obviously this is entirely hypothetical and would demand cautious testing, but theoretically the author wonders whether a Rifter might safely handle raw lyrium (and thereby be capable of enchanting as a dwarf or Tranquil might) with only a minimal risk of highly temporary physical mutation or brief mental fog—both of which might be further minimized with correct handling and equipment.
Last but not least, Wysteria has included a general outline for her planned upcoming experimentation. It's an aggressive but not unreasonable course of dosing natives and Rifters, with anchors and without, mages and non-mages, with modest measures of refined lyrium to determine whether there is any notable difference between how the disparate groups are effected.
Once she has collected her data, she means to examine the findings and determine whether exposing Rifters to raw lyrium constitutes a reasonable and productive risk given the noted dangers of exposure. However, she theorizes that in addition to the obvious benefits of training Rifters to smith runes and enchantments, raw lyrium (or refined lyrium in some quantity) might be advantageous to stabilizing a Rifter's presence in Thedas, and/or may be leveraged to modify the advancement of the anchor's transmutation of the flesh to which it has been attached.]
Doctor,
Here are the copies of my notes regarding the associations between Rifters and lyrium, some notes regarding Mister Dickerson and I's preliminary explorations of the subject, and so on. In addition to this, I would recommend seeking out the following files from Riftwatch's records. I have done my best to note the correct drawer in which they might be found, however it has been some time since last I assisted the Seneschal and it's possible that these papers have found a new home in the interim.
I'm quite cheered by your interest in the subject and look forward to continuing our work together.
Regards,
W. A.P.dF.
[The suggested reports refer to the following files that can be found among Riftwatch's records:
- The Blood Plague - 9:44
- A Survey of Rifters Arrival Sites - 9:44
- Further Surveys - 9:47, with a brief summary of the arcane mechanical principles behind the ARRIVED network.
The remainder of the packet details (in highly anonymized, broadly academic language) the amputation of Wysteria's arm and the dissection notes taken afterward.
In summary, anchor put down roots along the limbo's vascular system and the veins and vessels of the limb crystalized since the arm's removal. Rather than a foreign object implanting in the body, the flesh of the arm itself appears to have been undergoing a process of arcane transmutation.
When exposed to refined and red lyrium, the anchor and limb initially showed no immediate reaction. However prolonged exposure saw that lyrium drawn to the severed end of the limb where it attached and appeared to expand or multiply seemingly in an effort to reconstruct the body the limb was once attached to. This progressed for roughly two days before the residual arcane energies of the anchor faded and the lyrium reconstruction faded prior to forming a full upper arm/shoulder/so on.
Further related observations of the original host (aka Wysteria) in particularly significant fade-touched environments (aka the Crossroads) suggest the removal of the arm has somehow stabilized the Rifter host's physical manifestation in Thedas. Where Rifters ordinarily take on certain physical traits whole traveling in those places, since the loss of the limb the host no longer exhibits those traits in a fashion similar to a native Thedosian.
In addition to the self-autopsy report, there is a brief series of notes theorizing how a Rifter might be affected by exposure to raw lyrium. Obviously this is entirely hypothetical and would demand cautious testing, but theoretically the author wonders whether a Rifter might safely handle raw lyrium (and thereby be capable of enchanting as a dwarf or Tranquil might) with only a minimal risk of highly temporary physical mutation or brief mental fog—both of which might be further minimized with correct handling and equipment.
Last but not least, Wysteria has included a general outline for her planned upcoming experimentation. It's an aggressive but not unreasonable course of dosing natives and Rifters, with anchors and without, mages and non-mages, with modest measures of refined lyrium to determine whether there is any notable difference between how the disparate groups are effected.
Once she has collected her data, she means to examine the findings and determine whether exposing Rifters to raw lyrium constitutes a reasonable and productive risk given the noted dangers of exposure. However, she theorizes that in addition to the obvious benefits of training Rifters to smith runes and enchantments, raw lyrium (or refined lyrium in some quantity) might be advantageous to stabilizing a Rifter's presence in Thedas, and/or may be leveraged to modify the advancement of the anchor's transmutation of the flesh to which it has been attached.]
Edgard walks into the infirmary with what looks like paper that's been ripped out from a book that's blank and a small piece of charcoal.
"Still want some art? Have some time."
He straightens his very muddy self to his tallest height and rubs his hand across his face, making a smudge. He gives Strange a serious look.
"Give you a consultation."
"Still want some art? Have some time."
He straightens his very muddy self to his tallest height and rubs his hand across his face, making a smudge. He gives Strange a serious look.
"Give you a consultation."
At his window, a tapping.
It echoes strangely, on an odd delay, Gwenaëlle's crystal held up to where she is rapping on the window of the room Stephen occupies in their hostess's home — with any luck, delivering her urgent plea to get inside directly to him, even at so late the hour. And it is a late hour indeed, which is probably something to do with why the window she had intended to climb back in is now locked, and probably somewhere Coupe must be so smug that her gift would truly have come in useful if only Gwenaëlle had bothered to make even the slightest use of it.
Rather than regifting it twice.
Seeing as she did regift the lockpicking tools — twice — she is instead reduced to clutching her cloak around herself, tightly, and hissing, “Stephen, I know you aren't that deep a sleeper,” into her crystal, obscuring its glow with her hood and her hair.
It echoes strangely, on an odd delay, Gwenaëlle's crystal held up to where she is rapping on the window of the room Stephen occupies in their hostess's home — with any luck, delivering her urgent plea to get inside directly to him, even at so late the hour. And it is a late hour indeed, which is probably something to do with why the window she had intended to climb back in is now locked, and probably somewhere Coupe must be so smug that her gift would truly have come in useful if only Gwenaëlle had bothered to make even the slightest use of it.
Rather than regifting it twice.
Seeing as she did regift the lockpicking tools — twice — she is instead reduced to clutching her cloak around herself, tightly, and hissing, “Stephen, I know you aren't that deep a sleeper,” into her crystal, obscuring its glow with her hood and her hair.
( hard to say when it's left — in and out of each other's company, busy more than not, one interruption after the other — but it's her handwriting, the faint lingering scent of her perfume, left tucked beneath a paperweight on his desk in the head healer's office. )
- Stephen,
Finished unpacking the restock supplies. Inventoried what we have now and sketched a list for you of what you should shake Julius down for sooner than later but assume you will want to check it yourself so I haven't taken it to him. Attached to this note. Let me know if you need me to run that between when you've confirmed.
Gigi.
Hey, Strange. You got a minute sometime soon?
[She sounds worried, though not like it's an immediate emergency.]
[She sounds worried, though not like it's an immediate emergency.]
( during this )
You are urgently required in the Seneschal's office. Avoid the stairs and join us by elevator. A poisoning. Small dose. He is experiencing vertigo.
( have they ever spoken? petrana is so brisk in her distress considering whether she needs to introduce herself is the furthest thing from her mind. )
You are urgently required in the Seneschal's office. Avoid the stairs and join us by elevator. A poisoning. Small dose. He is experiencing vertigo.
( have they ever spoken? petrana is so brisk in her distress considering whether she needs to introduce herself is the furthest thing from her mind. )
( during this, Gwenaëlle is audibly moving, )
Are you hurt or are you busy?
( head healer. an attack rowntree is being vague about. makes sense—
it comes out brisker than she means it to, but she's a little distracted. )
Are you hurt or are you busy?
( head healer. an attack rowntree is being vague about. makes sense—
it comes out brisker than she means it to, but she's a little distracted. )
Edited 2024-03-12 19:31 (UTC)
It's late, when they finally find each other.
The Gallows — quieted, again, as much as it ever is. Their returned comrades cared for, the envy demons puddled into unpleasant ends, the urgency of it all slowed down to the not-quite-peace of recovery. Gwenaëlle vaguely remembers managing to eat something, but that's a distant memory, too, by the time Stephen is joining her on La Souveraineté. She's stowed her weapons (including sword, reclaimed from Vanya at the infirmary), peeled out of a dress that she has no especial desire now to wear again in favour of a robe, and with the thought in mind that he had woken up eating her hair she's sat at her vanity, working it into two neat braids. They'd been talking, a bit, but she's starting to lose the thread of her own stream of consciousness,
and catching sight of him, face down, in the mirror.
Midway through a thought that might have been something like, I don't think you should feel too badly about not knowing, I should have noticed in Halamshiral, she lets it trail into nothing and turns on the low stool, watching for longer than she needs to the slow and steady rise and fall of his breathing, Small Yngvi's big yellow eyes slowly opening where he has nestled himself in the small of Stephen's back.
Some lingering consternation melts, and she says, “I hope you don't think you're staying there,” severely, as she discards the idea of waking him up again in favour of abandoning the vanity, snuffing out the remaining lamp and sliding into the bed beside him. It isn't necessary to dislodge Small Yngvi in the process, but she does, and she's barely lain down but she's asleep, too, breathing evening out into something approaching peace.
When Stephen wakes,
she has been awake for a while, probably, to judge by the clear, alert gaze with which she is placidly watching him, her knee bent over his waist and her foot on the other side of his hip, her chin in her hand and her weight on her elbow.
(Small Yngvi is on half of his pillow.)
The Gallows — quieted, again, as much as it ever is. Their returned comrades cared for, the envy demons puddled into unpleasant ends, the urgency of it all slowed down to the not-quite-peace of recovery. Gwenaëlle vaguely remembers managing to eat something, but that's a distant memory, too, by the time Stephen is joining her on La Souveraineté. She's stowed her weapons (including sword, reclaimed from Vanya at the infirmary), peeled out of a dress that she has no especial desire now to wear again in favour of a robe, and with the thought in mind that he had woken up eating her hair she's sat at her vanity, working it into two neat braids. They'd been talking, a bit, but she's starting to lose the thread of her own stream of consciousness,
and catching sight of him, face down, in the mirror.
Midway through a thought that might have been something like, I don't think you should feel too badly about not knowing, I should have noticed in Halamshiral, she lets it trail into nothing and turns on the low stool, watching for longer than she needs to the slow and steady rise and fall of his breathing, Small Yngvi's big yellow eyes slowly opening where he has nestled himself in the small of Stephen's back.
Some lingering consternation melts, and she says, “I hope you don't think you're staying there,” severely, as she discards the idea of waking him up again in favour of abandoning the vanity, snuffing out the remaining lamp and sliding into the bed beside him. It isn't necessary to dislodge Small Yngvi in the process, but she does, and she's barely lain down but she's asleep, too, breathing evening out into something approaching peace.
When Stephen wakes,
she has been awake for a while, probably, to judge by the clear, alert gaze with which she is placidly watching him, her knee bent over his waist and her foot on the other side of his hip, her chin in her hand and her weight on her elbow.
(Small Yngvi is on half of his pillow.)
Finally, after nearly two months of waiting and wasting, Benedict (and presumably Edgard) have been deposited in the Gallows infirmary.
There's not much to do at the moment, other than sleep and quite literally try not to die; Benedict had taken a bit of water on the journey over, and would probably kill someone for food if he weren't nearly too weak to move.
A day or so after the return, he can be found lying on his cot, awake but absent, in the manner of gazing mindlessly at the nearby wall. It's its own kind of serenity, really.
There's not much to do at the moment, other than sleep and quite literally try not to die; Benedict had taken a bit of water on the journey over, and would probably kill someone for food if he weren't nearly too weak to move.
A day or so after the return, he can be found lying on his cot, awake but absent, in the manner of gazing mindlessly at the nearby wall. It's its own kind of serenity, really.
I'll write Sabine, she says, into her crystal. She means to do it—
sits at her desk, overlooking the water and the smoldering wreck of Kirkwall, and stares at a nearly blank page in front of her. She has written, SABINE, at the top and there is a wet splodge in the middle of the page that makes her rub at her eyes and push away, setting the quill down with a short spill of ink that is no more eloquent than anything else that's sat in her chest like a fist so far. Her hands grip the back of the chair and she stands there, furious, forlorn. Shoulders tight. Her stomach twists with something that is grief, and something more bitter, and why had she thought any of them would be safe anywhere, but least of all Casimir.
Gwenaëlle does not burst into tears, only because she has already been crying, only half aware of it, without her say, but the sound that she makes is animal rage, a wounded roar of pure frustration, the sound of her desk-chair breaking to pieces when she wheels around and crashes it against the wall of the alcove that part hides her (their, now) curtained bed.
She doesn't feel better for having done it. She sits with the pieces.
sits at her desk, overlooking the water and the smoldering wreck of Kirkwall, and stares at a nearly blank page in front of her. She has written, SABINE, at the top and there is a wet splodge in the middle of the page that makes her rub at her eyes and push away, setting the quill down with a short spill of ink that is no more eloquent than anything else that's sat in her chest like a fist so far. Her hands grip the back of the chair and she stands there, furious, forlorn. Shoulders tight. Her stomach twists with something that is grief, and something more bitter, and why had she thought any of them would be safe anywhere, but least of all Casimir.
Gwenaëlle does not burst into tears, only because she has already been crying, only half aware of it, without her say, but the sound that she makes is animal rage, a wounded roar of pure frustration, the sound of her desk-chair breaking to pieces when she wheels around and crashes it against the wall of the alcove that part hides her (their, now) curtained bed.
She doesn't feel better for having done it. She sits with the pieces.
action; some reasonable amount of time after the attack
wearyallalone
2024-04-29 02:15 am (UTC)(link)
They've all had plenty to keep their hands full, what with sifting through the rubble and slowly beginning to repair the two towers determined to be preservable. While in a perfect world, Vanya had only been cleared for light duty, he temperamentally can't help but pitch in with the rebuilding efforts. As a gesture to knowing it's not exactly the best idea, he's been regularly checking in with Strange. If nothing else, he presents himself at regular intervals as if to say See? Still upright.
Today, however, he's steeled himself for a slightly more thorough conversation when he turns up at the infirmary. He knows the schedule well enough that, barring some emergency, he should be able to catch Strange alone for a few minutes. "Doctor?" he asks, letting himself in. "Do you have a minute or two?" If part of him hopes the answer is no, it's a small part. It's not a conversation that will get easier for putting it off further.
He is looking better, if still a bit leaner as he continues to recover from his time as the demons' prisoner. At least his color is good, and his expression is focused and alert. He's tired, but then, who in the Gallows isn't?
Today, however, he's steeled himself for a slightly more thorough conversation when he turns up at the infirmary. He knows the schedule well enough that, barring some emergency, he should be able to catch Strange alone for a few minutes. "Doctor?" he asks, letting himself in. "Do you have a minute or two?" If part of him hopes the answer is no, it's a small part. It's not a conversation that will get easier for putting it off further.
He is looking better, if still a bit leaner as he continues to recover from his time as the demons' prisoner. At least his color is good, and his expression is focused and alert. He's tired, but then, who in the Gallows isn't?
What form does your magic take?
[ hi, hello, etcetera ]
[ hi, hello, etcetera ]
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