[ 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.]
[With her papers and her pen at the ready, Wysteria's attention is so utterly fixed on where Richard's bare hand meets the soft blue chunk of raw lyrium and where that connects with the shallow cut on his arm that for a long moment—six seconds, perhaps; maybe seven—, she doesn't even realize anything has gone off the rails. Maybe Mister Gecko counts very slowly. Maybe she ought to consider the possibility that not all Rifters have the same numbering system and indeed may not know the correct order in which to reach five, and so include that as a question on the paperwork.
She is just thinking this thought (seven? eight?) as her attention rises from the points of contact with the lyrium to—]
[ There is much leveraged into the build-up to this moment -- curt professionalism, careful navigation of fair warnings, their flexible proximity to the truth. Dick Dickerson is watching Mr. Gecko very closely from behind the constraints of his self-control.
It takes a few seconds of non-response past Wysteria’s prompt for him to flicker a look back over to her.
Uh oh.
He sniffs -- just once -- for the scent of burning flesh, as one might during an electrocution. ]
You recall the chamber we summoned my familiar in.
[ Muttered -- an assurance slipped between two friends like a note. Waist high black water in the bowels of the island full to the brim of cave-dwelling creatures ready to make short work of a corpse. He’d never be found.
Even so: Mr. Dickerson reaches carefully with his tongs to pry back one of Richie’s fingers pinching the lyrium sliver in place against his forearm, and states more authoritatively: ]
I’ll ask you not to crack wise about the fate of our patient, Madame de Foncé.
Oh, Mister Dickerson! [has the faint air of a young woman wishing to cover her eyes as he goes prodding after Mister Gecko's fingers, but she doesn't actually get around to striking that mortified of a pose. Instead, Wysteria squawks a further note of dismay and—]
Wait, let me—
[It takes only a few turns of the small crank to open a narrow lyrium sliver-sized gap in the clamp end of her prosthetic. Between tongs and clamp, it's not impossible to extract the little flint of raw lyrium from poor Mister Gecko's possession.
[Luckily for Richard and for also everyone's eardrums, he does not fall over dead. There's no sudden or dramatic reaction to the lyrium being removed. Instead, it's more like a man waking up from deep sleep - slow, hazy, confused. He blinks a few times, sways. Looks down at his empty hand held against his arm like he doesn't remember why it's there, or, in fact, remembers that it's his hand. He lifts it a little, pinching his fingers together like that will give some clue as to how they work, or what was held between them moments before.
He doesn't seem to notice Dick or Wysteria at all.]
Good afternoon, Mr. Gecko. [ Clipped. Still wielding the tongs, Mister Dickerson releases his fellow Rifter’s finger in favor of nipping up the lead-lined box for Wysteria to deposit the sample back into. Neat, tidy, all part of the plan, surely. ] How are you feeling?
[Dick Dickerson may be perfectly cool and collected, but is there any mistaking the alarmed look painted broadly across Wysteria's face as she quickly reverses the crank, dumping the soft raw lyrium fragment back into the bottom of the container? Maybe if Richie is very disoriented, she might manage to arrange her features into some parody of Fascinated rather than Horrified (That She Might Be Scolded For Driving Someone Mad).]
Yes, how are you feeling? Please be as descriptive as you're able. It will be important for our notes to be as complete as possible.
[The problem with coming back to reality is that you don't yet know you left it. This isn't the first time Richard's experienced it. The disconnect. The people around him who did not see what he saw. It's the unweaving of a tapestry in order to make it fit a new pattern, the unweaving of a mind to put it back on the right frequency. Questioning, unpicking, examining, and all the while being questioned, picked apart, examined.
The press of Dick and Wysteria's voices feels the same, enough that a learnt response almost kicks in, an I'm fine, no I don't want to talk about it, just leave it. But he remembers where he is. He remembers.]
Dizzy. [He answers, finally, slowly.] I saw...
[He trails off, frowning. Remembering what he saw. Knowing what he saw, and yet the words for it seem out of reach, at the tip of his tongue, the tips of his fingers.
He looks back down to his hand, still hovering over the cut on his arm. Lets it drop now. But that only clears the view to where the cut now seems to be opening, skin pushing aside as a multitude of white globules pop up in the flesh beneath, growing in size, in number.
One rolls, and there is revealed an iris, a pupil. Looking between all three of them, as if searching.]
[ Medium amounts of preoccupied with fitting the lid down snug over the box (after a quick glance inside to see that the fragment inside is still glowing), Dickerson has to look twice before instinct informs him he should set the box aside. He releases the tongs as well, freeing up his left hand to discreetly unfasten a catch over the grip of the dagger at his back.
He keeps his gloves on as he reaches to lift (politely) under Richie’s chin to better look hard into the normal amount of eyes he has. That doing so somewhat obscures his field of vision in a downward direction is surely purely coincidental.
HMMM. ]
Any information you can provide on your current emotional state is also important. [ Pressingly so. ]
[Wysteria, having forgotten about the soft scrap of raw lyrium the moment it'd fallen out of her possession, nonetheless fails to immediately notice the state of Mister Gecko's arm. She's concerned with searching his face, and the look of sluggish bewilderment, and what is or isn't slowly eking it's way out of his mouth in response to Dickerson's— What is it? Encouragement, let's say.
Yes, it's a good question. Most important. After all, what if they've cooked his mind like an egg and he doesn't feel anything at all? That's how they make Tranquil, isn't? With a lyrium brand. How ridiculous not to have considered the possibility in the first place—
The erratic flick of her attention lowers.
Wysteria's squawk of alarm is only half bitten off.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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
She is just thinking this thought (seven? eight?) as her attention rises from the points of contact with the lyrium to—]
Mister Gecko? It's been five seconds—
no subject
It takes a few seconds of non-response past Wysteria’s prompt for him to flicker a look back over to her.
Uh oh.
He sniffs -- just once -- for the scent of burning flesh, as one might during an electrocution. ]
no subject
But what will we do with his body?
no subject
[ Muttered -- an assurance slipped between two friends like a note. Waist high black water in the bowels of the island full to the brim of cave-dwelling creatures ready to make short work of a corpse. He’d never be found.
Even so: Mr. Dickerson reaches carefully with his tongs to pry back one of Richie’s fingers pinching the lyrium sliver in place against his forearm, and states more authoritatively: ]
I’ll ask you not to crack wise about the fate of our patient, Madame de Foncé.
no subject
Wait, let me—
[It takes only a few turns of the small crank to open a narrow lyrium sliver-sized gap in the clamp end of her prosthetic. Between tongs and clamp, it's not impossible to extract the little flint of raw lyrium from poor Mister Gecko's possession.
(If he falls over stone dead, she will scream.)]
no subject
He doesn't seem to notice Dick or Wysteria at all.]
no subject
no subject
Yes, how are you feeling? Please be as descriptive as you're able. It will be important for our notes to be as complete as possible.
cw: body horror, eyes
The press of Dick and Wysteria's voices feels the same, enough that a learnt response almost kicks in, an I'm fine, no I don't want to talk about it, just leave it. But he remembers where he is. He remembers.]
Dizzy. [He answers, finally, slowly.] I saw...
[He trails off, frowning. Remembering what he saw. Knowing what he saw, and yet the words for it seem out of reach, at the tip of his tongue, the tips of his fingers.
He looks back down to his hand, still hovering over the cut on his arm. Lets it drop now. But that only clears the view to where the cut now seems to be opening, skin pushing aside as a multitude of white globules pop up in the flesh beneath, growing in size, in number.
One rolls, and there is revealed an iris, a pupil. Looking between all three of them, as if searching.]
no subject
He keeps his gloves on as he reaches to lift (politely) under Richie’s chin to better look hard into the normal amount of eyes he has. That doing so somewhat obscures his field of vision in a downward direction is surely purely coincidental.
HMMM. ]
Any information you can provide on your current emotional state is also important. [ Pressingly so. ]
no subject
Yes, it's a good question. Most important. After all, what if they've cooked his mind like an egg and he doesn't feel anything at all? That's how they make Tranquil, isn't? With a lyrium brand. How ridiculous not to have considered the possibility in the first place—
The erratic flick of her attention lowers.
Wysteria's squawk of alarm is only half bitten off.]
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eye stuff
even more eye stuff
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