[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?
[ Thick as his fingers are in their leather gloves, Dickerson produces a mean little folding knife from a pocket in his vest, flicks it open, and takes hold of Richard’s upturned wrist in less time than it takes Wysteria to hit part three of her question. He could’ve fetched a scalpel, he could’ve run a flame along the blade, he could have switched to gloves that aren’t scorched rough and stained with evidence of experiments past. He could’ve done plenty of things.
The thing that makes the most sense to him is to nick a neat slice into Richard’s forearm before he can change his mind, so that is what he does as casually as he might snip through the skin of a potato. Just enough to draw blood.
He’s quick and he’s precise and he swipes the blade across the back of his glove before he folds it away again. A glance across to Wysteria in the process is less about clocking her reaction to the clip they’re moving at and more about trying to catch a glimpse of how many more questions she intends to ask. ]
[Richard doesn't flinch at the hold on his arm or the blade through his skin. A brief scrunch of discomfort across his features is all the action gets in reaction, then a somewhat critical look at the cut itself.
He'd deliberately come here a couple of days after feeding, but that still might be too shallow.]
Not that I'm aware of, [He answers, distractedly.] N/A, N/A.
[There's no signs of healing, but best not to leave it too long. He drops his arm back down, looking to Wysteria, raised eyebrows.]
Any more questions, or do I get to see the goods now?
Well— [Yes, there are more questions, it says. But either she senses something of the impatience between the Richards, or there is something about actually cutting into Mister Gecko's which recalls her own interest. She glances swiftly to the cut oozing, and then between them, and then clears her throat.]
No, that should be all right for just now. I will have questions afterward.
[That said, she turns to a new page in preparation for taking notes.]
[ There is a distinct hang of pause about Mr. Dickerson’s person as he takes up the tongs. Again, he looks to Wysteria.
It’s different this time -- a silent questing for consent, or a break for her to decide suddenly that she might wish to place herself outside, in a position of plausible deniability. What he is about to do next might guarantee a very short and/or painful stay in Thedas for Mr. Richard Gecko. But more importantly, whatever the outcome:
They are very likely to be reprimanded for it.
He plucks up the metal box with the tongs. He offers the box out, looks Richie in the eye, and says, evenly: ]
Please apply this to the incision, hold to the count of five, and place it back into the box.
[ The box at the end of Dick’s tongs is heavier than it looks -- polished on the exterior, lined with something darker. Lead, perhaps. The lid is snug. The scrap of raw lyrium within is soft and pliable as potassium, not much larger than a fingernail. It glows faintly blue in the daylight. ]
[That silent look is met with little more than a brief redirection of Wysteria's attention from the opened box and its contents down to the paper onto which she scratches a decisive little note—the day's date.
Yes, indeed. Someone probably will protest, but it isn't going to be her.]
[If there was a real point in this whole endeavour that had Richard doubting his decision to come here, this was it. Not because it's the point of no return, the oh so we're really doing this moment, but because he's being offered what looks like a lead-lined box on the far end of some tongs by a man wearing protective gloves, and apparently he's supposed to take the definitely slightly nuclear looking contents and apply them himself.
The expression he lifts from the box to Richard, to Wysteria, cannot be mistaken as anything other than are you shitting me?]
Didn't realise this was a DIY human experiment. What happens if I drop it?
[Because he may not be as experienced in this shit as them, but he's pretty sure he can already think of a bunch of ways having him do it himself could go wrong.]
Edited (I'm cursed by random white space wtf) 2022-07-16 22:55 (UTC)
I will ask you to pick it up, [ Mr. Dickerson answers without missing a beat.
His affect is one of academic patience, steady pressure without heat.
Thot has dropped silently off the side of the table she was seated on and picked her way across the office space to peer out through the open door. She’s just a cat. It’s probably not that unusual for her to look both ways before she exits. ]
[Dick by name, Dick by nature. The patient tone does nothing except further incite Richard's immediate instinct to bicker back. It's only him catching the movement of the cat from the corner of his eye that stops him, and very possibly saves this whole thing from descending into useless squabbling. But the reminder of the door is a reminder of time, of other people outside this room, of getting the fuck on with it.
Still, the look he levels at the other Richard as he picks up the lyrium sliver is flat, unmoving even as he brings it to the cut on his arm, readies himself to count as instructed.
He doesn't even get as far as one.
The lyrium makes contact with the cut on his arm and he is no longer himself. He is someone else, many someone elses, something else entirely. His mind is nothing but noise, image, motion, wheeling and stretching upwards, sinking low, rooting deep.
He doesn't drop the lyrium. But he doesn't count, and he doesn't remove it at the time where five would have come and past. In fact, he doesn't move at all.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
—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?
no subject
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.]
no subject
This is Wysteria, [ he adds, helpfully, once he’s fitted the first pair of gloves nearly up to his rolled sleeves. ] ‘Madame de Foncé.’
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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?
no subject
[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.]
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
[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.]
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
Not that I'm aware of.
[And circles back to the lyrium talk.]
I'm guessing the "processing" is also jealously guarded?
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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.]
no subject
[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?
no subject
The thing that makes the most sense to him is to nick a neat slice into Richard’s forearm before he can change his mind, so that is what he does as casually as he might snip through the skin of a potato. Just enough to draw blood.
He’s quick and he’s precise and he swipes the blade across the back of his glove before he folds it away again. A glance across to Wysteria in the process is less about clocking her reaction to the clip they’re moving at and more about trying to catch a glimpse of how many more questions she intends to ask. ]
no subject
He'd deliberately come here a couple of days after feeding, but that still might be too shallow.]
Not that I'm aware of, [He answers, distractedly.] N/A, N/A.
[There's no signs of healing, but best not to leave it too long. He drops his arm back down, looking to Wysteria, raised eyebrows.]
Any more questions, or do I get to see the goods now?
no subject
No, that should be all right for just now. I will have questions afterward.
[That said, she turns to a new page in preparation for taking notes.]
no subject
It’s different this time -- a silent questing for consent, or a break for her to decide suddenly that she might wish to place herself outside, in a position of plausible deniability. What he is about to do next might guarantee a very short and/or painful stay in Thedas for Mr. Richard Gecko. But more importantly, whatever the outcome:
They are very likely to be reprimanded for it.
He plucks up the metal box with the tongs. He offers the box out, looks Richie in the eye, and says, evenly: ]
Please apply this to the incision, hold to the count of five, and place it back into the box.
[ The box at the end of Dick’s tongs is heavier than it looks -- polished on the exterior, lined with something darker. Lead, perhaps. The lid is snug. The scrap of raw lyrium within is soft and pliable as potassium, not much larger than a fingernail. It glows faintly blue in the daylight. ]
no subject
Yes, indeed. Someone probably will protest, but it isn't going to be her.]
no subject
The expression he lifts from the box to Richard, to Wysteria, cannot be mistaken as anything other than are you shitting me?]
Didn't realise this was a DIY human experiment. What happens if I drop it?
[Because he may not be as experienced in this shit as them, but he's pretty sure he can already think of a bunch of ways having him do it himself could go wrong.]
no subject
His affect is one of academic patience, steady pressure without heat.
Thot has dropped silently off the side of the table she was seated on and picked her way across the office space to peer out through the open door. She’s just a cat. It’s probably not that unusual for her to look both ways before she exits. ]
no subject
Still, the look he levels at the other Richard as he picks up the lyrium sliver is flat, unmoving even as he brings it to the cut on his arm, readies himself to count as instructed.
He doesn't even get as far as one.
The lyrium makes contact with the cut on his arm and he is no longer himself. He is someone else, many someone elses, something else entirely. His mind is nothing but noise, image, motion, wheeling and stretching upwards, sinking low, rooting deep.
He doesn't drop the lyrium. But he doesn't count, and he doesn't remove it at the time where five would have come and past. In fact, he doesn't move at all.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
cw: body horror, eyes
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
eye stuff
even more eye stuff
(no subject)