therookery | crystal;

Entry tags:

crystal;

FORM: Crystal
SENDER: Richard Dickerson & Wysteria de Foncé
RECIPIENT: You All
NOTES: The highly scientific results from studying a not-so-recent amputation, and a call for volunteers (don't worry, it's not volunteering to get your limbs chopped off). Wysteria is in blue. Richard is in green.

Hello everyone. This is Madame de Foncé speaking, accompanied by Mister Dickerson. There is a whole report written up on the matter which we wish to discuss today. Anyone curious will find it filed among the Project Felandaris records. However, we agreed [sure that's the word for 'Wysteria bullied Richard into it'] that discussing the broad points in a more public venue might do some good.

Go ahead, Mister Dickerson.

Dissection of Madame de Foncé’s arm revealed extensions of the anchor growing outward along the vascular system, confirming the existing supposition that as much of the affected limb should be taken as possible to ensure an anchor is truly separated from its host.

[ There is an odd beat where it seems likely Mister Dickerson is hoping for Wysteria to chirp back in before he continues: ]

It further appears that lyrium has an affinity for -- [ more quietly ] Rifter flesh, for lack of a more delicate distinction. When exposed to Madame de Foncé’s arm it made a fleeting attempt to regrow the parts of her that were missing. [ So the rest of the Wysteria? Another pause. He doesn’t deign to specify. ]

We believe it may hold promise as a healing agent for Rifters if applied topically.

[Which brings them to the true aim of this whole endeavor, the enthusiasm for which has Wysteria's clipping in so briskly after him that there's almost no pause at all between 'if applied topically,' and—]

And so Mister Dickerson and I would like to make a request for volunteers from among the Rifter population. We would like to make a more thorough study of the effects of lyrium on us. I have prepared a sort of sign up form and have posted it on the door of Project Felandaris' office. If you would please add your name to it, Mister Dickerson, and myself, and indeed the general record would be most grateful.

That's all. Thank you. Ask whatever questions you wish to.

[Slightly muffled then, as if the crystal has been lowered away from the general nexus of conversation, Wysteria continues on in the same breath, 'You see, Mister Dickerson? That wasn't painful in the slightest. I hardly see why you were so hesitant—']

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[ The crystal shuffling provides him with a stretch for him to hold his smoke in, and he keeps it held longer still, ashes dusted off into the overturned skull of a nug he’s temporarily dedicated to that end. A fresh turn of smoke is chased out by a wheezing cough.

He clears his throat, adds a note to his list once it seems certain Abby has terminated her line of questioning. ]

Who do you think finds us embarrassing?

Enchanter Averesch comes instantly to mind. [But lest Richard think she is giving Kostos' opinion any measure of respect, Wysteria briskly continues:] And Mister Rutyer, and the Inquisition and the Chantry, and a great deal of Thedas in general. We are, generally, an inconvenience to them. Even if everyone is frightened of mages, they at least believe they understand them and can see the use of negotiating with them if only so their arcane talents can be leveraged.

No one knows what to do with any of us. And why should they? We don't even agree what to do with ourselves, or why any of it matters. And half of us may disappear before it even matters, so why bother sorting it out?

[Then, amidst the smoke:]

Are you alright?

Averesch is deliberately abrasive. Rutyer is a coward. The Chantry would see us all caged or exterminated. [ He’s listening to others debate amongst themselves while he writes, the volume little more than a murmur beneath his scratching. ] I fail to see why you’d care to elevate yourself in any of their regards.

[ Ellie has requested more specific documentation and he pulls a thicker folder over from one side of his table, flops it open, and replaces it with another. A convenient break in the clip of this debate, if it is one. ]

Why wouldn’t I be?

[Coward or foolish or reformed or whatever it is that Byerly Rutyer is now (she would be hard pressed to name exactly what that is if pressed to), she still can't help but think of the thing he'd once told her a long, long time ago now. That eventually the war will be over, and that what happens to Rifters after it will be wholly determined by the friends they make today and how useful they've become.

Not that there seems to be any imminent risk of peace, of course. But still—in hours like this one, the irritating specter of that thread lingers in the room as palpably as the smoke from Mister Dickerson's veritable elfroot cheroot does.]

Because this seems like exactly the sort of thing you wished to avoid when I suggested we make a conversation of our work. I know you to be selective when it comes to having your— interests known.

That ended the day the Provost published a list with my name on it.

[ He doesn’t say your friend the Provost. He doesn’t even pause to leave room for an implication, so busy writing now that he’s tilted his elfroot down to rest idle between two nuggy cuspids.

And yet. ]

Which isn’t to say this wouldn’t have been easier if we’d simply arranged for an accident to expose new arrivals without their buy in.

Yes, well. I suppose if no one volunteers after all—

[This is sullen, more childish and grumbling than she actually cares to be.]

I’ll touch it myself if no one volunteers.

[ Too blithe to be in direct response to her attitude. ]

You have more in common with Averesch and Rutyer now than you do the bulk of these ‘embarrassing’ Rifters, you know.

[Her gaze had begun to drift briefly down to the pages laid out before her. Yes, she'd overheard bits and pieces of his exchange with Derrica, but—

The point of her attention flicks sharply back up. Some measure of heat blooms on the back of her neck, though doesn't spread high enough to reach her face or for Wysteria to be cognizant of it's meaning.]

Pardon?

[ Notes abandoned with one last clipped scrawl and a sharp point, crystal switched off entirely, Mr. Dickerson pinches the joint back in for another deep draw as he turns more fully on his seat to face her. There are silver shavings prickled in fine at his temples, grey quills in his beard. His ear is torn, his cheek is scarred across the bone. The cage of his left hand around the elfroot spooling smoke through his knuckles is stiff, slightly crooked.

It’s been a rough couple of years for everyone. ]

You’re real.

[Here, some of that color does reach her face. Though it's motivation—a reflexive defensiveness not wholly divorced from the sort of association she'd been dreading he might make between herself and Misters Rutyer and Averesch—has shifted close to embarrassment by the time it gets that far. It turns the pinch her brow nearer to thoughtfulness than offense.]

In the sense of a Templar reinforcing reality, I suppose.

[ Disapproval furrows in scruffy around his frown, the chips of his eyes bright in spite of pink creeping in muggy around the edges. He’s all long angles slanted at odds over the stool, elbows and knees and intent study, spindling smoke. ]

Hmm, [ he says.

Is that all she supposes? ]

Edited 2022-05-23 19:46 (UTC)

[Ordinarily, Wysteria isn't one to squirm under examination. And why should she? Yet sitting there in that smoky office under the point of his attention, she maybe shifts just a little on the stool where she's perched.]

If you're trying to impress upon me some fact about the dangers of this work or to offer some caution in a similar vein, then allow me to reassure you, Mister Dickerson—I am quite aware. In fact I recall you and I discussing the importance of making rational, measured decisions about our approach to all of this in some detail.

[ His sigh is full-bodied -- a pull at his neck anchored by the one elbow he still has set to the table beside him. Weary. Also wary. Of Wysteria Poppell’s willful(?) lack of awareness or of her aversion to negative feedback. Both.

He dismisses the dangers with a gesture, absent, a loop of smoke. ] You have a future. Your existence here is assured, and meaningful.

Don’t disparage the others for being irrational.

[To say that it checks her would be an overstatement. Indeed it isn't even what he says, really, but rather the tired line of Mister Dickerson's posture which engenders some hint of sympathy in her. It is exhausting, isn't it?

She frowns. And then is silent for a very short beat which in the language of Wysteria Poppell is a very long one. And then:]

I should apologize to you. I knew it would be this way, and confess that I thought I might employ you as a sort of shield against it. But I should have warned you that everyone is always stubborn and irrational and frightened, and that we were doing no one except the public record a favor by saying anything aloud. It's only that I didn't want everyone to forget, or for our work to become some dusty stack of papers in a cabinet in case we all—you all, I suppose—disappear or someone dies. Which is quite possible, you know. Just dying.

[She's heard there's a war around here somewhere.]

Yes, [ Richard agrees. ] Death is a possibility.

[ For natives, for Wysteria, for Rifters who are statistically far likelier to vanish without a trace. They might as well keep their options open. He looks down to hook the nug skull around into easier reach with his pinkie, and nestles the roll of his joint back into the open scoop of the jaw. ]

If I’m to function as a shield you should consider letting them lie after I’ve acknowledged their concerns.

[It's a fine point. That doesn't mean it doesn't elicit some dissatisfied squirming from her, Wysteria's fingertips drumming with brief vexation across the top of her notes.]

I suppose, [she allows after a pause.] You might not be incorrect.

—Although Serah Astarion is truly dreadful. And I would have said so before this moment, for the record.

That’s charitable of you. [ Muttered under his breath, little effort made to mask word or sentiment. If she supposes. He might not be incorrect.

Divested of its elfroot, his propped hand is free to push at the furrows around his mouth, to smooth his whiskers, to chase the grit prickling up unkempt at his chops. It would be easy for him to agree on the subject of Astarion and his penchant for slinging his feelings around the crystal network like red paint across a fur coat.

He doesn’t disagree. Offhand, after a moment’s drifting thought that may or may not be filled by Wysteria starting back up again, he confesses without looking at her: ]

I’d like to become a Warden.

[She hasn't returned to the crystal. Instead, she has taken that moment to reorder herself or rather to reorder and absently square the pages on which she's been taking notes.

(And to sort, or at least attempt to sort, the varying degrees of her irritation and offense and virulent disappointment and a little embarrassment. It's exquisitely annoying to be so easily riled—)]

A Warden!

[Her attention rides abruptly.]

Have you said so to Mister Ellis? Or to Warden Adrasteia?

I have said so.

[ Matter-of-fact. He levels back into eye contact upon sensing the shift in her attention, reading her like a creature plucked from a fade-touched thatch of grass. ]

I have said so more than once to Mister Ellis.

[She suffers only a moment of confusion. More than once—]

He has tried to discourage you.

[ Silas thinks about it, knuckle under nose, the harder carve of his frown masked by the crook of his hand where it’s rested. The bones in his face are especially sharp when still.

Against his neck, a needle tongue feathers there and gone again from some creature buried beneath the turn of his collar. ]

I am discouraged.

[ That’s an apt word for it, upon his reflection. ]

I cannot in good conscience bring blighted materials back to the Gallows for study. They are best investigated in the field, where conditions are difficult to control.

But surely then the best alternative would be for you to join their—[She frowns, the confusion creeping in once more to tinge the line of her brow and the shape of her mouth.]

Why would he advise otherwise? Did he say? No, I doubt he did. And if he has, then I will be very impressed with your ability to extract information, Mister Dickerson.

[Is there anyone in Riftwatch so mercilessly tight lipped?]

He’s fixated on the acquisition of additional research. [ This is easier to answer. The framework of the sentiment is already there, well worn into the walls of his skull and necessarily shadowed by the cloying illogic of continual delay. Suspicion gnawing itself in the unknown. ] Research we may never find. We’ve been searching for months. The excursions are deadly.

You’re familiar with the disquiet of not knowing how much longer you have to wait.

[ She is, as they’ve just reminded themselves, a Rifter. ]

Or how much longer you’re willing to.

[Yes, she is familiar. How many days had she lay in that ridiculous clinic bed with her fingers turning black at the end of her arm, wondering whether they might reserve themselves and no action at all would be necessary. That she might simply leave it as it was, because who knows what repercussions separating herself from the anchor might have?

(And before that—ignoring the debilitating urgency of the pain in her arm.)

There in the Felandaris office, Wysteria absently raises her hand to smooth the many flyaway filaments of hair at the base of her neck.]

I think—

[She thinks lots of things. The order of them takes another moment further to arrange.]

He's frightened of it. The Blight and what it may ruin. And so perhaps also Wardening. I'm not calling him a coward [—is punctuated with a swift, protective look flashing sharply in Richard's direction—], only... less objective.

[ Richard is listening in a way he has before but doesn’t always -- when he’s only clocking the scaffold of her indignation over some misjudgment or insult, her excitement over weapons designed to grant the mundane power to blast great messy holes in their enemies. He’s curled his talons in, eyes gleaming keen amidst scruff and root, attuned because he wants to know her answer and not because he might need it to mitigate a mess she’s helped to make.

He’s quiet again while he considers it, no trace of disagreement in lines masked in part by the set of his hand. ]

There are Wardens in Orzammar.

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