Weisshaupt. It is the head of the Grey Wardens. A place in the Anderfels, which naturally poses its own challenges before we even begin to discuss the matter of having slain their king.
—Oh, [is sudden, a thought occurring to her.] But that happened in Ghislain as well. No wonder the Venatori were so fixed on that place.
[ it's not that he's not interested in what's occurred to her, it's just that it's dawning on him that if he doesn't interrupt, he may never get around to his point. ]
What do you think the odds are that the gate might be emitting some kind of signature? Do you think you [ general you, the nerds ] can find it and figure out a way to detect it? It'd make finding the other gates a hell of a lot easier.
[Happily, Wysteria is fairly amiable about the changing of gears.]
I'm not...altogether certain. Mister Stark and I [and Misters Ellis and Fitz and so on, but surely that much is implied in with those three words] have been working on measuring the level of Fade...iation... emitted by the Rifts. And while its true to some extent that there are warning signs which precipitate their opening and readings which might be taken once they are fully formed--
I trust it is of foremost concern. Oh, but the ruin is quite dangerous and the lower most levels are unpleasant. It would be prudent, I think, for any expedition to be well armed. And armored.
Oh, certain environmentally oppressive enchantments. Narrowing passages with bladed walls designed with to bleed anyone who might move through them. The usual gamut of horrors in a shrine to an ancient god known for its—his?—proficiency with blood magic, I should think. On the plus side, I believe any toxins that might have been present had long since faded as our injured seemed untroubled on the front of poisons.
I'm sure for practitioners of the...worship? Of Dumat... were of the opinion that it was all perfectly orderly and businesslike.
But to a modern sensibility, yes. Very much so. Many old ruins are. Mademoiselle Durfort-Lacapalette and Ambassador Fazon—Andraste guide her—and myself once fell into a room full of snakes.
And certain environmental enchantments, [she helpfully reminds him.] In this case, there is a pall over the lower regions of the temple which muffles sound and light.
It was difficult to sense where it came from, and we spent little time in the ritual chamber with the gate itself, but I suppose it might have been centered there and radiated upward. Given Dumat's role however, I suspect it a feature of the temple rather than a product of the rift.
No. No, it's most certainly cursed in some fashion. And given the Venatori's prolonged occupation of the area and our altercation in the ruin itself--oh, there was a Tevinter mage found alongside it. I neglected to mention it; he clearly was suffering from a kind of corruption and is dead now--, I would suppose Corypheus' forces had some notion it was there. But whether they had any hand in its creation or were merely there to make contact with something that was already there, I cannot say.
Oh no. Thank you. The coffee from the Gallows kitchens is truly dreadful. Should you come into possession of a hard boiled egg or slice of toast, however—
How kind. In that case, you may find me in Project Felandaris' office. I've set up shop there for the time being. I will set aside a ready copy of the survey for your use as well.
When he arrives, he carries a plate with a couple of slices of toast — still warm. In his other hand is a steaming mug of coffee, for himself. All told, it means that it's a good thing she's left the door open, because knocking would take some doing.
This is just an office at Riftwatch, the sunlight bright through the windows. This is no snowy mountainside; this is no Venatori fortress; and he looks exactly the same as the day before, years and years of weariness and ill-use fallen away in the waking world.
"More work in exchange for bringing you breakfast," he says, laying down the plate near her and taking a seat, "doesn't seem like an equal trade to me."
Wysteria is not sitting, but that seems to be very much by choice. It is so much easier to bustle about the desk or the office, to pull records and sort papers into differently orderly stacks if she remains standing.
Straightening from a prodigious collection of freshly written notes, Wysteria tucks her pen--somewhere behind her ear. It must disappear into the elaborate braided up do, for a moment it is there and the next it is nowhere to be seen. She helps herself to a slab of toast.
"Equal, no. But I'm afraid there is a war on, Mister Holden, and so some of us must extend ourselves beyond what is truly fair. You understand. Here, your copy."
A page with a series of predictable questions is divided from a stack of similarly scrawled sheets. She lays it before him, unearthing a pencil to go along with it as she devours the toast.
"You look much improved," comes from behind the shield of her hand. Is that insulting? Who knows. It's been said, and can hardly be taken back now.
Holden's been here a few months, has been aligned with Research for part of that time, has known Wysteria for all of it. There's no reason why he wouldn't know, by now, the kind of organized chaos that follows in her wake. But something about it still feels more familiar, more soothing, than it actually should, by rights.
It's not a sense he bothers to dwell on. But if he looks by parts more relaxed than when he came in, well. He picks up the pencil, taps it against the sheets a few times as he glances up at her maybe-an-insult, unruffled.
"I never thought I'd be so happy to wake up in the Gallows," he admits, by way of answer. "I'll never complain about these rooms again."
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—Oh, [is sudden, a thought occurring to her.] But that happened in Ghislain as well. No wonder the Venatori were so fixed on that place.
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What do you think the odds are that the gate might be emitting some kind of signature? Do you think you [ general you, the nerds ] can find it and figure out a way to detect it? It'd make finding the other gates a hell of a lot easier.
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I'm not...altogether certain. Mister Stark and I [and Misters Ellis and Fitz and so on, but surely that much is implied in with those three words] have been working on measuring the level of Fade...iation... emitted by the Rifts. And while its true to some extent that there are warning signs which precipitate their opening and readings which might be taken once they are fully formed--
The theory seems sound.
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We should see about getting a team down there as soon as we can.
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I trust it is of foremost concern. Oh, but the ruin is quite dangerous and the lower most levels are unpleasant. It would be prudent, I think, for any expedition to be well armed. And armored.
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Oh, certain environmentally oppressive enchantments. Narrowing passages with bladed walls designed with to bleed anyone who might move through them. The usual gamut of horrors in a shrine to an ancient god known for its—his?—proficiency with blood magic, I should think. On the plus side, I believe any toxins that might have been present had long since faded as our injured seemed untroubled on the front of poisons.
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But to a modern sensibility, yes. Very much so. Many old ruins are. Mademoiselle Durfort-Lacapalette and Ambassador Fazon—Andraste guide her—and myself once fell into a room full of snakes.
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It was difficult to sense where it came from, and we spent little time in the ritual chamber with the gate itself, but I suppose it might have been centered there and radiated upward. Given Dumat's role however, I suspect it a feature of the temple rather than a product of the rift.
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Do we have any idea how that rift got there?
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[ maybe it's...different??? god, he's out of his depth ]
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All the more reason to go and find out.
[ would he normally be more careful? maybe. don't worry about it. ]
....hover menus...
[This, she says, in continued perfect good cheer.]
But I very much doubt the expedition will be raised today. Should you not see to your coffee first?
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[ which is not really an answer at all, or even solid acknowledgment of her point. so, ]
Do you want me to bring you a cup?
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[ the gallows kitchens coffee actually is awful, it's true. but — ]
I can arrange that.
[ is he willing to bring wysteria food? apparently. ]
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This is just an office at Riftwatch, the sunlight bright through the windows. This is no snowy mountainside; this is no Venatori fortress; and he looks exactly the same as the day before, years and years of weariness and ill-use fallen away in the waking world.
"More work in exchange for bringing you breakfast," he says, laying down the plate near her and taking a seat, "doesn't seem like an equal trade to me."
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Straightening from a prodigious collection of freshly written notes, Wysteria tucks her pen--somewhere behind her ear. It must disappear into the elaborate braided up do, for a moment it is there and the next it is nowhere to be seen. She helps herself to a slab of toast.
"Equal, no. But I'm afraid there is a war on, Mister Holden, and so some of us must extend ourselves beyond what is truly fair. You understand. Here, your copy."
A page with a series of predictable questions is divided from a stack of similarly scrawled sheets. She lays it before him, unearthing a pencil to go along with it as she devours the toast.
"You look much improved," comes from behind the shield of her hand. Is that insulting? Who knows. It's been said, and can hardly be taken back now.
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It's not a sense he bothers to dwell on. But if he looks by parts more relaxed than when he came in, well. He picks up the pencil, taps it against the sheets a few times as he glances up at her maybe-an-insult, unruffled.
"I never thought I'd be so happy to wake up in the Gallows," he admits, by way of answer. "I'll never complain about these rooms again."
He never has, but you know. On principle.
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