[This is a great series of documents and notes relating to a certain cold-generating enchanted pyramid—or more specifically, the great variety of bespoke runes which had been found in some Venatori researcher's notes in the same iced over cave. There is also, incongruously, a great schematic laid out on the workroom table above these notes. It appears to have nothing at all to do with either runes or nefarious Tevene pyramids, and instead more closely resembles some shipwright's designs.
Which is exactly what they are—cheap copies of some clipper cross section sheets, bargained for out of a Rialto records house. Neither the ship or the runes are, strictly speaking, her designs and so it had been easy to distract her from them in the name of preambling through preamble.
Here though, she promptly lowers her attention again and picks up her pencil once more. It has the distinct air of 'Oh, is that all' as she resumes marking up the ship's schematics.]
Mister Stark and I have been discussing the flying ships from our dream. Using force magic to keep them afloat would be far too draining on any mage. But Valentine and I threw a sail off the tower the other day and something about it reminded me of how birds float about on the air, and so I wondered whether it might be possible to make our own air. What about Mister Rutyer?
[ Make our own air, she says, and Bastien's eyes narrow for a flicker of disbelief before widening again to comb over the spread of documents and diagrams with this new context. He still can't make heads or tails of most of it. Appreciates it more, though, with wonder and visions of flying ships and sky pirates stacked onto the usual curiosity. ]
Uh...
[ His attention peels away from the diagrams as if from a sticky bit of tar. ]
[Scritch, scritch goes the pencil over the page. 'Uh' is evidently not a compelling enough prompt to solicit additional remarks regarding theoretical physics bending.]
I don't see why I wouldn't now. You were both rather insistent.
[A brief look is flicked in his direction, independent from the movement of her hand. Clearly he is chasing the edges of some point. They may as well proceed directly to it.]
[ Is this the least garrulous he's ever found her? Likely. It could be a result of interrupting her work rather than an effect of the subject matter—but maybe not. He promised that Byerly could hold it over his head for a year if he made it worse; the risk seems genuine.
But he meets her quick look with an equally quick smile and shrug, then looks where she is looking instead, following the marks. ]
He's taken it to heart—that you thought he was lying to get out of it, when really he has full faith [ rounding up ] in your abilities and wanted to help. He cares a lot about your opinion.
[It's a distinctly knowing sound, this Ah. Not Ah, I've been caught out being a scoundrel, or Ah, I'm sorry to hear it, but rather: Ah, we've solved the puzzle. She doesn't sound particularly shocked by the picture the pieces make either, and in fact continues on making a few marks on the page and cross-referencing some item from the Venatori scholar's research.]
Which is why it's you here after it and not him. I must say, you and Lady Asgard are the most supportive sort of friends. —See, I don't know of any Thedosian magic which creates or manipulates wind. But wind is just the transfer of heated air into cold. So if we could make both, there may be some way forward.
[ Bastien's eyebrows do a thing, at the word friends, but it's a silent thing. And before the thing has even fully departed from his forehead, he is cocking his head to one side and saying, ]
Oh.
[ This Wind Fact is news to him, but so many facts of that nature are news to him that he doesn't require convincing. His gaze roves away from her over-his-head marks to some of the other notes and diagrams that had not previously connected for him. ]
Like in Emprise du Lion? That would be amazing. I assumed they were blood magic, the ships. It made it difficult to enjoy them much.
Precisely so—with respect to Emprise du Lion, I mean, not blood magic. Someone who was working on the artifact we recovered from there was designing runic enchantments and I suspect they were instrumental in the effects there. And if the Venatori achieved that much, then I see no reason why we couldn't. It would have to be controlled and contained in some fashion, of course, [she emphasizes this with some decisive stroke of the pencil, graphite dark on the faintly fuzzy texture of the parchment.] On account of not wanting to freeze or burn anyone to death, but also because I think it wouldn't work otherwise.
Life would be so much easier, you know. If we had an enchanter in our ranks. We should increase recruitment efforts with dwarves. That's what you should tell Mister Rutyer when you report back to him all the details of this conversation.
[A pause. The pencil is tapped briefly once, twice, on the page as Wysteria considers the question. It's a tricky enough one that it briefly distracts her from the whole point of this exchange.]
I'm not certain, [she says at the end of that contemplative beat.] The water might present some added difficulty. But theoretically—
It might pay for itself that way, or justify the research if someone thinks flight is too outlandish. Being certain we could outpace Tevinter ships could be worth a lot of resources, too.
[ He looks back at the diagram she's marking up with a mild-mannered sort of hunger. What a time to be alive. ]
As long as you don't let anyone stop you there. I want to fly.
[That makes her laugh, a sharp amused scoff of a noise, and she straightens from over the papers.]
I'll be sure to include that note in any proposal I submit to Provost Stark. I've no doubt he would hesitate to disappoint you personally.
[The pencil is tucked thoughtlessly behind her ear. It frees her hand up—she is not wearing the clamp ended prosthetic this afternoon, empty sleeve judiciously pinned up beneath the shoulder of her bodice—to begin shuffling the scattered papers back into something like order. Have they finished talking about Byerly Rutyer? It seems unlikely.]
He watches in silence for a moment, while his amusement over the idea of Provost Stark giving a damn about fulfilling Bastien's personal childish dreams slowly recedes. Then he sighs. ]
I'm not trying to find out what you think and report back to him. I'm reasonably confident I know what you think.
[ To elaborate would, he's aware, look awfully similar to trying to find out for certain, baiting her into confirmation or irritated correction. He doesn't. ]
But I put him up to it. [ More or less. ] The sobriety. And it's hard, and he's embarrassed by it, but he tried to be honest with you anyway, in front of everyone, and I realize the timing was bad for your purposes, but you put him on the spot, so it was tell you, or lie to you, or give it up, or agree but then back out—
[ An endless sentence. Tone still mild, pace still measured, but nonetheless a sign of his feelings coming untucked. He pauses to put them back into place. ]
If you find yourself with an opportunity to say something more encouraging to him in the future, I hope you take it. That is all.
[You ought to be honest with your friends no matter the inconvenience, she had more or less said to Byerly Rutyer not so long ago. She recalls it quite sharply then, and finds herself thoroughly annoyed with the version of herself who had been lying in an infirmary bed and in such a dreadful state of self pity and sentiment that she might conjure so absurdly a myopic claim.
Yes, fine. What a very decent theory. But that silly girl ought to have added some caveats like, 'But also it's fine to point out the inconvenience if it's very inconvenient.']
Yes, well. [Has the light, airy quality of a person trying to work out how to avoid a niggling point of guilt pressed against the skin.] Perhaps you may give me some secret signal from across the room on a day when Mister Rutyer is in a mood not to misconstrue the attempt as me making light of his efforts or the first step in some plot to wound him. I've never had much luck having a conversation of any length with the man over the subject of his own person. I'm afraid we're poorly matched conversationalists in that regard.
[ The credit for Bastien not banging upon the honesty drum with even greater force goes to Byerly, who did not mention this sickbed instruction, not even to whine she wanted me to be honest. ]
He does like to put up a fight, doesn't he.
[ Said with hideous fondness. ]
Pourquoi pas—
[ He points at her with both hands. They are not finger guns, because what is a pistol. It is a dual point. It is a remarkably unsecretive signal. ]
[So unsubtle that it warrants an eye roll, the fly on sticky paper thrash of a person objecting to being caught in the edge of Bastien's gooey affections or to being caught in proximity to some emotion far stupider than annoyance. Papers restored to something like order, her hand automatically drifts back to fetch the pencil from behind her ear as if to make a further scratch amidst her notes.]
See, there. All is resolved. And all it required was to afford me some credit [(the far stupider emotion is the rising sting of frustration pricking at the backs of her eyes, which she blinks back and instead makes a small mark on the schematic)] that I wouldn't purposefully chose to be beastly. So if that is all you wished to discuss, Monsieur—
[ Bastien wobbles his head side to side in more or less acquiescence. It is what he came to discuss, at least, and if he wishes for a thorough and illustrated lecture on theoretical magical aerodynamics, he should probably not interrupt her in the middle of her work day to insist on it.
He takes one step back, in recognition of the dismissal, but he's examining what he can see of her desk-turned face. ]
[I can imagine no reason why I wouldn't be, she might say in that airy and light tone she loves so much to use as a substitute for being ill tempered. It would be the simplest thing to offer him. Yes, she is perfectly well. Thank you for asking and now please go away.
It takes her a moment to work past that impulse.]
I'm frustrated, [she says instead, continuing to find places on the schematic which demand little marks.] But I would prefer not to quarrel, and I think if we were to discuss my feelings further that I'm likely to unjustly lose my temper. So please remember to convey my wish that we recruit a proper enchanter to Mister Rutyer. I will of course make a point of saying the same to Provost Stark.
[ Bastien nods, perhaps overeagerly, and takes another two steps. The second begins the turn toward the door. He has never made a habit of keeping himself where he's not wanted, except where money was involved. He has at times made a habit of frustrating people. But never as unintentional collateral damage of caring about something else entirely.
He stops there, half-turned. ]
I'm sorry. I would like to know about your feelings, though. I like you. Leaving you alone with some silent frustration—I would prefer to quarrel.
You can't let me fool you with, [ he gestures generally to his face, still pleasant as ever. ] I used to bully my partner until she threw knives at me. So— I'll go. I'm going. [ He is. More steps. ] But if you want to come tell me off when you are done working, or whenever you want, I think you should do it.
[If she notes the general gesture, it must be from the corner of her eye as she otherwise has turned all her attention focused singularly on the graphite's point.]
I will consider it once I've decided whether I'm being childish or not. Have a good afternoon.
Vous aussi, Madame, [ in parting. He’s going! He’s gone. And if she does decide she is being childish, she will—knowingly or not—enact some small measure of vengeance by leaving him to wonder forever what she might have said. ]
[Knowingly or not, she allows him to suffer in that state for a number of days without relief.
And then some afternoon, Wysteria appears in the Jeshavis office. She does not indulge in preamble, and instead promptly lays out a collection of cheap little gossip tracts solicited from various sources on his desk. They are from Kirkwall, and from various nearby Marcher cities, and one from Orlais is old enough that its shoddy paper has begun to split on the folded seams, all of which suggests Wysteria has been collecting them for some time or at least has made a habit of stuffing them into her pockets and then forgetting to throw them away.]
I would like to make one of these. How much would it cost?
[ A number of days is long enough for the agony of unknowing to have slipped into the background of his life, barely noticed, for the most part, when it is not drawn back into focus by e.g. her sudden appearance in his office with a collection of tracts. He examines her face for only a moment before he looks at what she's brought instead, flipping through two of the samples to gauge their length and the quality of their materials. The Orlesian one he lifts last and examines with a slower, more nostalgic eye.
Only one? he might have asked, had he not so recently been frustrating. ]
[Her face is very serious, possessing the sort of singular focus of a person who has spent a great deal of time thinking about something before resolving on a plan of assault. Her answer is similarly prepared:]
Sixty. The paper doesn't need to be good, particularly as I know we're short on it. In fact, it would be preferable if it were the sort of thing that fell apart and turned easily to pulp.
Also, how long would it take to set something of this length?
[ He hums, giving one another flip. One consequence of buying one's way into a trade at thirty instead of coming up as an apprentice, perhaps, is the inability to give immediate and instinctive answers to these things. Instead it is: twenty-eight hundred words in a workday means two hundred and eighty per hour, give or take, and this is how many pages, and that is how many words, and— ]
If it an emergency, I could do it in a day. Otherwise, working on it around this— [ he waves an apparently disinterested hand about at the assortment of annoying documents and depressing maps in the room ] —maybe five?
You would be looking at around [ reasonable static sound ] silver, for the paper and ink, and [ even more reasonable static sound ] for the labor, [ with a one-armed flex. ] Unless it is for something very noble or heart-wrenching.
[From— somewhere behind her ear or from the midst of her plaited hair, Wysteria draws forth a pen. She flicks one of the tracts closer to her so she may make notes of these sums and timetables and so on in the corner so as to commit them permanently to memory.]
Very good. I think I can afford that.
[It will be a pinch on Riftwatch's pay, she thinks, but should worse come to worse she will simply berate Val until he loans her the money. The pen is absentmindedly disappeared behind the ear or into her braid once more.]
I mean to solicit other authors to start. Maybe something amusing that no one will take very seriously but everyone will still read when it appears in with their mail. It won't be anonymous or tawdry like these exactly, but ought to be equally disposable. Something which may be taken in and then discarded without much effort.
I only ask that you be willing to keep who is paying for it a secret. From most everyone, anyway. I don't care if the Division Heads know.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Which is exactly what they are—cheap copies of some clipper cross section sheets, bargained for out of a Rialto records house. Neither the ship or the runes are, strictly speaking, her designs and so it had been easy to distract her from them in the name of preambling through preamble.
Here though, she promptly lowers her attention again and picks up her pencil once more. It has the distinct air of 'Oh, is that all' as she resumes marking up the ship's schematics.]
Mister Stark and I have been discussing the flying ships from our dream. Using force magic to keep them afloat would be far too draining on any mage. But Valentine and I threw a sail off the tower the other day and something about it reminded me of how birds float about on the air, and so I wondered whether it might be possible to make our own air. What about Mister Rutyer?
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Uh...
[ His attention peels away from the diagrams as if from a sticky bit of tar. ]
You didn't believe him. Or you don't believe him?
[ Which tense is he working with here. ]
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I don't see why I wouldn't now. You were both rather insistent.
[A brief look is flicked in his direction, independent from the movement of her hand. Clearly he is chasing the edges of some point. They may as well proceed directly to it.]
Why?
no subject
But he meets her quick look with an equally quick smile and shrug, then looks where she is looking instead, following the marks. ]
He's taken it to heart—that you thought he was lying to get out of it, when really he has full faith [ rounding up ] in your abilities and wanted to help. He cares a lot about your opinion.
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[It's a distinctly knowing sound, this Ah. Not Ah, I've been caught out being a scoundrel, or Ah, I'm sorry to hear it, but rather: Ah, we've solved the puzzle. She doesn't sound particularly shocked by the picture the pieces make either, and in fact continues on making a few marks on the page and cross-referencing some item from the Venatori scholar's research.]
Which is why it's you here after it and not him. I must say, you and Lady Asgard are the most supportive sort of friends. —See, I don't know of any Thedosian magic which creates or manipulates wind. But wind is just the transfer of heated air into cold. So if we could make both, there may be some way forward.
no subject
Oh.
[ This Wind Fact is news to him, but so many facts of that nature are news to him that he doesn't require convincing. His gaze roves away from her over-his-head marks to some of the other notes and diagrams that had not previously connected for him. ]
Like in Emprise du Lion? That would be amazing. I assumed they were blood magic, the ships. It made it difficult to enjoy them much.
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Life would be so much easier, you know. If we had an enchanter in our ranks. We should increase recruitment efforts with dwarves. That's what you should tell Mister Rutyer when you report back to him all the details of this conversation.
no subject
I might leave out the flying part. He is not one for heights.
[ That is a joke. Of course Byerly would never let personal acrophobia interfere with his judgment. ]
Could the same idea work for ships asea? I can't imagine what the Antivans would trade to never be beholden to the wind.
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I'm not certain, [she says at the end of that contemplative beat.] The water might present some added difficulty. But theoretically—
[She shrugs. Sure, why not.]
no subject
[ He looks back at the diagram she's marking up with a mild-mannered sort of hunger. What a time to be alive. ]
As long as you don't let anyone stop you there. I want to fly.
no subject
I'll be sure to include that note in any proposal I submit to Provost Stark. I've no doubt he would hesitate to disappoint you personally.
[The pencil is tucked thoughtlessly behind her ear. It frees her hand up—she is not wearing the clamp ended prosthetic this afternoon, empty sleeve judiciously pinned up beneath the shoulder of her bodice—to begin shuffling the scattered papers back into something like order. Have they finished talking about Byerly Rutyer? It seems unlikely.]
no subject
He watches in silence for a moment, while his amusement over the idea of Provost Stark giving a damn about fulfilling Bastien's personal childish dreams slowly recedes. Then he sighs. ]
I'm not trying to find out what you think and report back to him. I'm reasonably confident I know what you think.
[ To elaborate would, he's aware, look awfully similar to trying to find out for certain, baiting her into confirmation or irritated correction. He doesn't. ]
But I put him up to it. [ More or less. ] The sobriety. And it's hard, and he's embarrassed by it, but he tried to be honest with you anyway, in front of everyone, and I realize the timing was bad for your purposes, but you put him on the spot, so it was tell you, or lie to you, or give it up, or agree but then back out—
[ An endless sentence. Tone still mild, pace still measured, but nonetheless a sign of his feelings coming untucked. He pauses to put them back into place. ]
If you find yourself with an opportunity to say something more encouraging to him in the future, I hope you take it. That is all.
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Yes, fine. What a very decent theory. But that silly girl ought to have added some caveats like, 'But also it's fine to point out the inconvenience if it's very inconvenient.']
Yes, well. [Has the light, airy quality of a person trying to work out how to avoid a niggling point of guilt pressed against the skin.] Perhaps you may give me some secret signal from across the room on a day when Mister Rutyer is in a mood not to misconstrue the attempt as me making light of his efforts or the first step in some plot to wound him. I've never had much luck having a conversation of any length with the man over the subject of his own person. I'm afraid we're poorly matched conversationalists in that regard.
[There. Take that, girl in the infirmary bed.]
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He does like to put up a fight, doesn't he.
[ Said with hideous fondness. ]
Pourquoi pas—
[ He points at her with both hands. They are not finger guns, because what is a pistol. It is a dual point. It is a remarkably unsecretive signal. ]
no subject
See, there. All is resolved. And all it required was to afford me some credit [(the far stupider emotion is the rising sting of frustration pricking at the backs of her eyes, which she blinks back and instead makes a small mark on the schematic)] that I wouldn't purposefully chose to be beastly. So if that is all you wished to discuss, Monsieur—
no subject
He takes one step back, in recognition of the dismissal, but he's examining what he can see of her desk-turned face. ]
Are you alright?
no subject
It takes her a moment to work past that impulse.]
I'm frustrated, [she says instead, continuing to find places on the schematic which demand little marks.] But I would prefer not to quarrel, and I think if we were to discuss my feelings further that I'm likely to unjustly lose my temper. So please remember to convey my wish that we recruit a proper enchanter to Mister Rutyer. I will of course make a point of saying the same to Provost Stark.
no subject
He stops there, half-turned. ]
I'm sorry. I would like to know about your feelings, though. I like you. Leaving you alone with some silent frustration—I would prefer to quarrel.
You can't let me fool you with, [ he gestures generally to his face, still pleasant as ever. ] I used to bully my partner until she threw knives at me. So— I'll go. I'm going. [ He is. More steps. ] But if you want to come tell me off when you are done working, or whenever you want, I think you should do it.
no subject
I will consider it once I've decided whether I'm being childish or not. Have a good afternoon.
no subject
no subject
And then some afternoon, Wysteria appears in the Jeshavis office. She does not indulge in preamble, and instead promptly lays out a collection of cheap little gossip tracts solicited from various sources on his desk. They are from Kirkwall, and from various nearby Marcher cities, and one from Orlais is old enough that its shoddy paper has begun to split on the folded seams, all of which suggests Wysteria has been collecting them for some time or at least has made a habit of stuffing them into her pockets and then forgetting to throw them away.]
I would like to make one of these. How much would it cost?
no subject
Only one? he might have asked, had he not so recently been frustrating. ]
How many copies? Approximately.
no subject
Sixty. The paper doesn't need to be good, particularly as I know we're short on it. In fact, it would be preferable if it were the sort of thing that fell apart and turned easily to pulp.
Also, how long would it take to set something of this length?
no subject
If it an emergency, I could do it in a day. Otherwise, working on it around this— [ he waves an apparently disinterested hand about at the assortment of annoying documents and depressing maps in the room ] —maybe five?
You would be looking at around [ reasonable static sound ] silver, for the paper and ink, and [ even more reasonable static sound ] for the labor, [ with a one-armed flex. ] Unless it is for something very noble or heart-wrenching.
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Very good. I think I can afford that.
[It will be a pinch on Riftwatch's pay, she thinks, but should worse come to worse she will simply berate Val until he loans her the money. The pen is absentmindedly disappeared behind the ear or into her braid once more.]
I mean to solicit other authors to start. Maybe something amusing that no one will take very seriously but everyone will still read when it appears in with their mail. It won't be anonymous or tawdry like these exactly, but ought to be equally disposable. Something which may be taken in and then discarded without much effort.
I only ask that you be willing to keep who is paying for it a secret. From most everyone, anyway. I don't care if the Division Heads know.
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