The long defunct Project Felandaris office, heretofore the unofficial hiding spot for all things suspect and gruesome entertained by herself and Dickerson, has seen only very minor transformations in deference to the comings and going of the lyrium tests volunteers. Certain papers have been filed away. The jar containing Wysteria's pickled arm has been judiciously moved behind the jars of dissected fade-touched nug calves, and those even more prudently kept to the far side of the room and half hidden by more innocent elvish artifacts, a defunct component from a V.A.N.E. tower, miscellaneous diagrams, and certain pinned notes: Remember!, one declares. Lyrium is a dangerous substance and should only be handled by trained members of research! For your own safety, please carefully follow the directions of the individual supervising your trial!

Otherwise, the changes to the room are restrained to a plethora of fine glass ampuls carefully arranged in wooden racks glowing with the soft blue light of refined lyrium, a suspect case roughly the length of one's forearm presently shut tight, and a series of chairs arranged to the side of the room.

Wysteria isn't presently occupying one of those. Instead, she is sat at the office's desk which is presently piled high with notes. She is in the middle of sorting these when the mabari arrives and has clearly been at it for some hours, as even the small white dog lying at her feet is too bored to bother with springing up to greet his long absent friend. Tab simply wags his little curl of a tail and sniffs out a hello. Wysteria meanwhile lifts her pen from the page, and her elbow too so she might peer under it at the unhappy dog.

"Oh. Hello Ruadh."