[The amount of words Wysteria used in conveying information was more than Richard was generally used to, but that didn't meant the information wasn't there. Her directions to the Project Felandaris office, for instance, had been neat and accurate, and he has no problem finding it, even as still unfamiliar with the building as he is.
He doesn't stop to fill out his name on the form on the door though. Just like he hadn't confirmed his interest over the crystal, he doesn't really like his business being noted anywhere. Criminal instincts. Culebra ones too. Besides, all he had mentioned was an interest in seeing the reports and the arm.
So it is that he's waiting in the office, un-(explicitly)invited, looking through notes, peering at things, and probably poking some stuff he shouldn't be touching.]
A pair of slitted pupils follows Richard’s progress through the room, the gargoyle of a cat they belong to seated stock still upon a stack of notes at one desk. She’s black as pitch, all long legs and goggling eyes beneath batlike ears, the whipcord of her tail curled tight around goblin paws.
The source of the stink is the cold stump of a joint nested in an upturned skull at the same desk. The skull might have belonged to a rabbit, or a small dog.
Presently, the scuff of leather sole on stone announces another arrival in the doorway. Lean, ginger, dressed all in black. Reserve in his shoulders, suspicion in the slant of his brow, Richard Dickerson says: ]
—Which is precisely why I told him that—[the voice rises at rapid volume as the distance to the speaker closes, culminating in:]—oof, [as Wysteria clips bodily in Richard Dickerson's back. She'd been chattering along with such singular focus that she'd neglected to do things like verify the distance between them remained consistent as they reached the doorway.
It somewhat spoils the ominous effect.]
Why on earth did you stop, Mister Dickerson? The door is open. Your companion hasn't activated another artifact has she, because I was quite careful about having locked all the relevant compartments—
[Dickerson. Richard had heard that name on the crystal, too, and honestly had thought it might be a joke. Wysteria's voice repeating it almost has him cracking an incredulous smile, but it's restrained to just raised eyebrows as he puts down the metal instrument he'd been fiddling with, glances the guy over.]
I'm here for the dubious human experiments.
[A casual lift of a hand that could be a wave, but is really a demonstration of the green smudge in his palm. Fresh Rifter meat.]
[ Mister Dickerson is 40-something, balding, torn sharp through the cartilage of one ear, and looks like he may not know how to laugh. His shoulder thumps into the doorjamb upon Wysteria’s impact, one hand thrown up late to stop him being bodied into the office entirely.
The look he cuts back to her is unappreciative, time taken to straighten his vest, which does not need straightening. ]
A volunteer, [ he tells her, plenty of room for her to pass him by once he’s stepped inside. And, more quietly in aside and with slightly more of an edge: ]
I wouldn’t qualify the previous incident as an ‘activation.’
[This matter of semantics—who or what is or isn't to blame for the black scorch mark on the stone ceiling of the office—is evidently less compelling than 'a volunteer', for the young woman who ducks out of Mister Dickerson's wake pursues no further debate of it.
In her prim blue skirts and currently sporting the rosy flush of a sunburn on her face, Wysteria de Foncé doesn't look much like a mad scientist who would lop off arms and inject unfortunate victims with narcotics. If not for the left arm substituted with a brushed metal, clamp-ended prosthetic, she might most closely resemble a character out of a mannered comedy with that broadly expressive face.]
Oh! [she cries, all good cheer.] So it is! How marvelous. You must be the gentleman with the eluvian fascination. I know nearly everyone's face otherwise. Although I'm ashamed to say that I don't think I introduced myself properly, or even asked your name when we spoke earlier. I was rather distracted at the time—sit! Sit! There is stool just there. Pardon me.
[Is for the black cat gargoyling on the desk, Wysteria having tornadoed her way to that side of the room with the intent to extract the sheaf of notes out from under the animal.]
[Wysteria's face and manner match almost exactly with what Richard had in mind from speaking with her (he tended to think brunette before blonde), and he watches the whole display with only a deepening air of bemusement.]
She's really just like this all the time, huh?
[Directed to Dickerson as he hooks the indicated stool over, tall enough that it's more like a prop for him to lean on. Habit still has one hand sliding to loosen jacket buttons that aren't there, the suit he'd arrived in tucked away safely while he's been forced to adopt the most similar clothes available, so his fingers just smooth fabric briefly before dropping away.]
[ Dick remains a more standoffish presence near the door, sizing Richard up directly now that the mayfly bustle of Wysteria is battering about the Felandaris desks and tables between them.
His cat unfolds herself from Wysteria’s notes at her approach, knobbly back arched, one paw outstretched to hand or clamp, whichever reaches in first. Either way she must be lifted aside to uncover the sheaf, croaking as she goes.
There’s a cabinet near the door. Once Mister Dickerson is certain this latest and greatest Richard is likely to behave himself for the short term, he turns his back to retrieve two pairs of heavy leather work gloves from its stores. ]
[The gangly cat is relocated rather like a child might—tucked under one arm and then, having bent a little awkwardly, allowed to ooze back out of the circle of Wysteria's arm to some more convenient location. There is a brief moment afterward where Wysteria judgementally regards the hair left behind on her shirtsleeve, but it's a small irritation and quickly forgotten as she unearths a few pages from the stack on the desk and wheels back around to their victim.
—To their volunteer.]
There is a small list of questions we've decided on. Please answer them to the best of your ability. It may be important. Question one—
[She has knit the distance between them closed, flitting back to lay the pages on the crowded worktable near Richard. But she here she pauses midway through retrieving a pencil from a battered tin cup and reassesses him there at the edge of the stool:]
[He hadn't said his name at all, but he doesn't bother correcting that. It wasn't intentional avoidance, just that she hadn't asked directly and he hadn't felt the need to volunteer it yet. Now:]
Richard Gecko.
[Back home the impact of his name could be a useful tool. If it was recognised, and why. Here, he's expecting recognition still, but limited only to the noise Seth had made over the crystals regarding this whole endeavour.]
Richard Dickerson, [ this weedier, ginger Richard introduces himself in turn. It's hard to say what recognition might count for, here. Certainly nothing that crosses his face. ]
This is Wysteria, [ he adds, helpfully, once he’s fitted the first pair of gloves nearly up to his rolled sleeves. ] ‘Madame de Foncé.’
[It's fortunate for everyone involved that Richard heroically lays claim to introductions, for otherwise this endeavor might be waylaid entirely. Wysteria has straightened abruptly, her face gone very red with mortification and fury both. Her very blue eyes are straining to stay in her very flush face—
Gecko.
—and she has only marginally recovered by the conclusion of her name.]
I prefer the latter, [is airy and absent. Gecko!] Madame de Foncé, I mean. But I realize it's not always very typical, this use of surnames.
[It's fortunate for Richard Dickerson that Wysteria has such a strong reaction to Gecko, because it distracts Richard from saying anything about his name. Instead he just gets a brief parents didn't like you much, huh look, and then Richard's watching the results of Seth having gotten firmly under someone's skin with something close to smug amusement.
He doesn't linger in it long. He doesn't want this going completely sideways.]
Relax, Madame de Foncé. [A mouthful, but he understands proper titles, and he imagines it'll go some way to smoothing things over.] My brother doesn't know I'm here.
[And it's best for everyone involved that he doesn't find out, but Richard assumes that goes without saying.]
He can be... [His mouth tugs, head swaying like he's trying to think of the best way to put it:] a little close-minded.
[ Dickerson stays fixed on the exchange until the olive branch of acknowledged unreasonableness is extended. Then he’s back to it.
What else will they need? A slender case he draws out of a cabinet, a pair of long wooden tongs, a small metal box he retrieves from a larger box with said tongs and sets aside, notes cherry-picked from his own stack across the room. ]
How open-minded would you say that you are?
[ He thinks to ask while re-ordering notes through the thick fingers of his gloves. ]
['I'm perfect relaxed,' is a very small objection muttered more or less under Wysteria's breath as she straightens, impatiently smoothing her skirts with her one hand though they've hardly had the opportunity to become rumpled. Afterward, she briskly completes fetching that pencil from its little cup and begins rustling through her papers.
At last, she writes R1 at the top of the page. These two characters are more than sufficient to betray Wysteria's penmanship as being roughly as innately flouncy as the rest of her.]
And have you any pre-existing aversions to the arcane that you're aware of?
[He answers Wysteria, and it isn't even a lie. His aversions were all very natural, physical things, and not even necessarily all that inhuman except for how the aversion presented itself.]
And I'm as open-minded as I need to be.
[To adapt, thrive, and balance out Seth's dug-in heels over whatever they may have landed in. Like fantasy land, with little boxes being ominously only handled with tongs and protective gloves.]
We’ve identified additional records documenting the effects of processed lyrium on Rifters, including records from an ordeal that occurred before either of our arrivals wherein Rifters who had never been knowingly exposed to lyrium were stricken down with what appeared to be a lyrium deficiency.
[ Dickerson chimes in where he can hammer a block of text in between questions, still standing across the room with notes in hand. ]
Processed lyrium was administered to Rifters as a cure with minimal complication. But so far as I can tell, there’s never been any attempt made to introduce a Rifter to lyrium in its natural state.
[It could be a dismissal of the differential, but it's a genuine question. He's read and heard enough to know there is processed and raw, but not what exactly is done between the two states - and from the way it's talked about, it's hard to know if he should be comparing it to cocaine or plutonium.]
[Wysteria opens her mouth, clearly on the very verge of launching into an explanation. —And then she instead proceeds to her next question, slipping it in between Richard's question and whatever answer Mister Dickerson will see fit to provide:]
Have you any latent arcane Talents or otherwise extraordinary abilities which might—by the standards of Thedas—be considered magical or supernatural in nature, anchor shard notwithstanding?
[ What is the difference. Mister Dickerson pulls in a breath to answer with only to keep it to himself in an echo of Wysteria’s pause seconds before. Reconsidering his answer.
He carries the box of the raw stuff with tongs, for starters. ]
The precise nature and most promising applications of raw lyrium are jealously guarded by native populations who stand to benefit the most from maintaining its mystique.
[ The audacity. ]
It is known to be more reactive -- the side-effects I mentioned before.
[By the standards of Thedas is a nice little loophole, considering he doesn't know what those standards are, so he skips through it neatly, answering:]
Not that I'm aware of.
[And circles back to the lyrium talk.]
I'm guessing the "processing" is also jealously guarded?
[Wysteria studiously notes this answer in her little written survey as well. Without looking up, and apparently having used up all her restraint in allowing Mister Dickerson to answer Mister Gecko's previous question—]
Even more so than the use of raw lyrium, I would say. The secret of the refinement process is a key part of how the dwarves have controlled the supply of refined lyrium to the various parties such as the Chantry and the Templar Order which employ it on the surface.
Too distracted to spare more than a glance to affirm Wysteria’s answer, Dick tongs up the metal box and carries it forth to place it down on an adjacent table. The notes he offers over into Richard’s care -- a bulleted, bare-bones record of findings from the Rifter plague, the forced administration of purified Lyrium to Tevinter-held captives, and so on. ]
[For a moment Richard's brain gets caught on the ridiculousness of the word dwarves being dropped in a serious conversation about the logistics of power in a country. He gets over it with nothing more than a slight tug to the corner of his mouth - there's no one here that would appreciate any comments he made about it.]
Sounds like they've got the right idea. [As he rolls one sleeve up past the elbow, methodical in the fold and turn of it.] The miners got royally fucked in most countries where I'm from.
[Not that it helps in the context of the current topic, but still. Props where props are due. And his holds his arm out for the other Richard to cut, softer underside turned upwards. Like getting a shot.]
Well, I'm not certain the miners themselves see much return from the whole endeavor. But certainly the various great houses of Orzammar must be pleased with the whole arrangement.
[Her attention flicks briefly toward the metal box as its carefully tonged over, and then dutifully returns to the papers before her so she may rush through the last few questions as Mister Dickerson sees to Mister Gecko's most generously offered forearm.]
Question three, part one. Does "magic" or something similar exist in your world? Question three, part two. And if so, is it somehow tied or sustained by a sort of extra-planar space similar to the Fade in Thedas? Question three, part three. If not, from where does it originate?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
action.
He doesn't stop to fill out his name on the form on the door though. Just like he hadn't confirmed his interest over the crystal, he doesn't really like his business being noted anywhere. Criminal instincts. Culebra ones too. Besides, all he had mentioned was an interest in seeing the reports and the arm.
So it is that he's waiting in the office, un-(explicitly)invited, looking through notes, peering at things, and probably poking some stuff he shouldn't be touching.]
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It also isn’t entirely empty.
A pair of slitted pupils follows Richard’s progress through the room, the gargoyle of a cat they belong to seated stock still upon a stack of notes at one desk. She’s black as pitch, all long legs and goggling eyes beneath batlike ears, the whipcord of her tail curled tight around goblin paws.
The source of the stink is the cold stump of a joint nested in an upturned skull at the same desk. The skull might have belonged to a rabbit, or a small dog.
Presently, the scuff of leather sole on stone announces another arrival in the doorway. Lean, ginger, dressed all in black. Reserve in his shoulders, suspicion in the slant of his brow, Richard Dickerson says: ]
Hello.
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It somewhat spoils the ominous effect.]
Why on earth did you stop, Mister Dickerson? The door is open. Your companion hasn't activated another artifact has she, because I was quite careful about having locked all the relevant compartments—
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I'm here for the dubious human experiments.
[A casual lift of a hand that could be a wave, but is really a demonstration of the green smudge in his palm. Fresh Rifter meat.]
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The look he cuts back to her is unappreciative, time taken to straighten his vest, which does not need straightening. ]
A volunteer, [ he tells her, plenty of room for her to pass him by once he’s stepped inside. And, more quietly in aside and with slightly more of an edge: ]
I wouldn’t qualify the previous incident as an ‘activation.’
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In her prim blue skirts and currently sporting the rosy flush of a sunburn on her face, Wysteria de Foncé doesn't look much like a mad scientist who would lop off arms and inject unfortunate victims with narcotics. If not for the left arm substituted with a brushed metal, clamp-ended prosthetic, she might most closely resemble a character out of a mannered comedy with that broadly expressive face.]
Oh! [she cries, all good cheer.] So it is! How marvelous. You must be the gentleman with the eluvian fascination. I know nearly everyone's face otherwise. Although I'm ashamed to say that I don't think I introduced myself properly, or even asked your name when we spoke earlier. I was rather distracted at the time—sit! Sit! There is stool just there. Pardon me.
[Is for the black cat gargoyling on the desk, Wysteria having tornadoed her way to that side of the room with the intent to extract the sheaf of notes out from under the animal.]
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She's really just like this all the time, huh?
[Directed to Dickerson as he hooks the indicated stool over, tall enough that it's more like a prop for him to lean on. Habit still has one hand sliding to loosen jacket buttons that aren't there, the suit he'd arrived in tucked away safely while he's been forced to adopt the most similar clothes available, so his fingers just smooth fabric briefly before dropping away.]
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[ Dick remains a more standoffish presence near the door, sizing Richard up directly now that the mayfly bustle of Wysteria is battering about the Felandaris desks and tables between them.
His cat unfolds herself from Wysteria’s notes at her approach, knobbly back arched, one paw outstretched to hand or clamp, whichever reaches in first. Either way she must be lifted aside to uncover the sheaf, croaking as she goes.
There’s a cabinet near the door. Once Mister Dickerson is certain this latest and greatest Richard is likely to behave himself for the short term, he turns his back to retrieve two pairs of heavy leather work gloves from its stores. ]
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—To their volunteer.]
There is a small list of questions we've decided on. Please answer them to the best of your ability. It may be important. Question one—
[She has knit the distance between them closed, flitting back to lay the pages on the crowded worktable near Richard. But she here she pauses midway through retrieving a pencil from a battered tin cup and reassesses him there at the edge of the stool:]
Oh apologies. What did you say your name was?
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Richard Gecko.
[Back home the impact of his name could be a useful tool. If it was recognised, and why. Here, he's expecting recognition still, but limited only to the noise Seth had made over the crystals regarding this whole endeavour.]
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This is Wysteria, [ he adds, helpfully, once he’s fitted the first pair of gloves nearly up to his rolled sleeves. ] ‘Madame de Foncé.’
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Gecko.
—and she has only marginally recovered by the conclusion of her name.]
I prefer the latter, [is airy and absent. Gecko!] Madame de Foncé, I mean. But I realize it's not always very typical, this use of surnames.
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He doesn't linger in it long. He doesn't want this going completely sideways.]
Relax, Madame de Foncé. [A mouthful, but he understands proper titles, and he imagines it'll go some way to smoothing things over.] My brother doesn't know I'm here.
[And it's best for everyone involved that he doesn't find out, but Richard assumes that goes without saying.]
He can be... [His mouth tugs, head swaying like he's trying to think of the best way to put it:] a little close-minded.
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What else will they need? A slender case he draws out of a cabinet, a pair of long wooden tongs, a small metal box he retrieves from a larger box with said tongs and sets aside, notes cherry-picked from his own stack across the room. ]
How open-minded would you say that you are?
[ He thinks to ask while re-ordering notes through the thick fingers of his gloves. ]
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At last, she writes R1 at the top of the page. These two characters are more than sufficient to betray Wysteria's penmanship as being roughly as innately flouncy as the rest of her.]
And have you any pre-existing aversions to the arcane that you're aware of?
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[He answers Wysteria, and it isn't even a lie. His aversions were all very natural, physical things, and not even necessarily all that inhuman except for how the aversion presented itself.]
And I'm as open-minded as I need to be.
[To adapt, thrive, and balance out Seth's dug-in heels over whatever they may have landed in. Like fantasy land, with little boxes being ominously only handled with tongs and protective gloves.]
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[ Dickerson chimes in where he can hammer a block of text in between questions, still standing across the room with notes in hand. ]
Processed lyrium was administered to Rifters as a cure with minimal complication. But so far as I can tell, there’s never been any attempt made to introduce a Rifter to lyrium in its natural state.
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[It could be a dismissal of the differential, but it's a genuine question. He's read and heard enough to know there is processed and raw, but not what exactly is done between the two states - and from the way it's talked about, it's hard to know if he should be comparing it to cocaine or plutonium.]
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Have you any latent arcane Talents or otherwise extraordinary abilities which might—by the standards of Thedas—be considered magical or supernatural in nature, anchor shard notwithstanding?
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He carries the box of the raw stuff with tongs, for starters. ]
The precise nature and most promising applications of raw lyrium are jealously guarded by native populations who stand to benefit the most from maintaining its mystique.
[ The audacity. ]
It is known to be more reactive -- the side-effects I mentioned before.
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Not that I'm aware of.
[And circles back to the lyrium talk.]
I'm guessing the "processing" is also jealously guarded?
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Even more so than the use of raw lyrium, I would say. The secret of the refinement process is a key part of how the dwarves have controlled the supply of refined lyrium to the various parties such as the Chantry and the Templar Order which employ it on the surface.
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Low risk of death.
Too distracted to spare more than a glance to affirm Wysteria’s answer, Dick tongs up the metal box and carries it forth to place it down on an adjacent table. The notes he offers over into Richard’s care -- a bulleted, bare-bones record of findings from the Rifter plague, the forced administration of purified Lyrium to Tevinter-held captives, and so on. ]
Where would you like to be cut?
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Sounds like they've got the right idea. [As he rolls one sleeve up past the elbow, methodical in the fold and turn of it.] The miners got royally fucked in most countries where I'm from.
[Not that it helps in the context of the current topic, but still. Props where props are due. And his holds his arm out for the other Richard to cut, softer underside turned upwards. Like getting a shot.]
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[Her attention flicks briefly toward the metal box as its carefully tonged over, and then dutifully returns to the papers before her so she may rush through the last few questions as Mister Dickerson sees to Mister Gecko's most generously offered forearm.]
Question three, part one. Does "magic" or something similar exist in your world? Question three, part two. And if so, is it somehow tied or sustained by a sort of extra-planar space similar to the Fade in Thedas? Question three, part three. If not, from where does it originate?
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cw: body horror, eyes
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eye stuff
even more eye stuff
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