[And so it is, until a little after noon in Hightown. There is no bothering with the pretense of the parlor - the rug is moldering and everything has been stripped out of it for the time being until she can find out where that smell is coming from. Instead it is in the scrubbed clean kitchen the she sets an elaborately gilded teacup before him with a clatter of porcelain and pours some mysterious hot drink into it. It does not look or smell like tea.]
Now. What was it you meant to show me?
[She had been disappointed that he hadn't arrived with some package under his arm and is being short with him now. Do not waste her time, Mr. Whatever Your Name Is.]
[ Coat thrown over the back of the chair. Posture: slumped. Tony tips the cup enough to view its contents, cynical, bringing it up then to sniff over the rise of steam to determine its origins. ]
What is this, a concentrate? You're not meant to drink those, but hey, next time I'll bring some sandalwood, you, uh, look like you could use it.
That is not [said archly, as she pours herself her own cup] an answer to the question, Mr. Stark née Rhodes-Potts. Might I remind you that you're the one who organized this little tête-à-tête?
[ He goes and chances a sip from the fancy teacup in spite of prior sass, making a brief face at the elaboration of his name if not the liquid itself. ]
Okay, and I came out all this way and had to play dodgeball with My Little Poltergeist back there, so humour me for half a sec, will ya.
[ He sets the cup down, considers the question, then settles on; ]
It's my heart. Kind of.
[ He taps the centre of his chest, where she's inevitably glimpsed the circular glow that lives there, mostly obscured now in thicker winter fabrics. ]
[The stream of dark not-tea pauses, interrupted by the jig of her hand as if cued by the tap of his finger. She looks at him - or specifically at the center of his chest - blinks uncomprehendingly, and then quite sensibly sets the pot aside.]
Your heart. 'Kind of' and 'adjacent' to. —Might you consider some form of actual elaboration, Mr. Stark?
I'm working up to a thing, would you just relax? Is this tea time or an interrogation?
[ Hands splayed, snipping more for the sake of snipping than being particularly injured that she'd like to get to the point. ]
This thing is-- was a reactor from my homeworld. A battery, uh, powersource. I built it. Coming in hot through the rift changed it into some'n else and a little while ago I cracked it. Not literally, I mean, I reverse engineered its-- runic magic lyrium bullshit into something I could understand. Replicate.
Thought you'd get a kick out of it, [ he adds, while raising his cup again. ] I'm gonna need you to sign an NDA after this, by the way.
[In the arrangement of Miss Poppell's face, there is sometimes an ubdeniable trend toward smugness. It is obvious in moments like this one as it slips away that she doesn't actually wear it well—that it is more girl trying on something that doesn't belong to her. The keen look developing to replace it, though. That she comes by much more honestly.]
You have a lyrium powered device generating more power. And you could reproduce it— [Is she a little breathless?] Or someone could. Not you obviously, unless we want you going mad, but the principle of the thing—
[And then she is up from the table in a flurry of skirts, moving about the kitchen.] Oh, this is something. You have no idea how applicable this could be to my project. I've been looking for a solution to the cycling of magical energy problem. There is a period of refraction from most basic enchantment designed to activate like [a snap of the fingers] but minimizing that period would— Here.
[A piece of paper and pencil are slapped eagerly down before him, the gilt saucer for his cup removed well outside of easy reach.]
You must explain it in great detail. [And] Do you suppose I might see it?
More for the fact that it's necessary, that this time, this place, he's not gonna get anywhere clutching onto closely guarded technological secrets as he had back home. Not when the technology isn't really his anymore, not really, transformed and monstrous, and only good for keeping pieces of metal out of his heart and nothing else if he doesn't trust one person.
And the one person he trusted is gone.
Still, he'd known a bit of relief, a bit of old fashioned scientific excitement, imparting this information to Howard, and it wasn't pure daddy issues, okay, because he can feel a glimmer of that when she gets it, and her brain starts racing, and her mouth starts running.
SpEaKiNg Of wHiCh-- ]
Yeah, here's-- alright. [ He places a hand atop paper and pencil as if to still Wysteria's momentum. ] This next part is important, and I need you to say with words that you're not gonna start leaking trade secrets all over the place. Not to your croquet picnic pals, and not to the leadership, and not to anyone in between.
Of course. [Quite emphatic, genuine to the very core of her principles. You can tell because she places a hand steadfastly at the base of her throat and actually takes a moment to breath in before going on.] I would never share the information. The paper you will write should naturally be the first thing anyone sees on the subject. Anything else would be tantamount to theft.
[ The deep incredulity this answer inspires within him renders him mute and staring for a few seconds, but you know what? With her hand to heart and big earnest eyes?
Good enough. ]
Yeah, [ he says, quick agreement, instead of laughing. ] I appreciate it, and I appreciate, uh, that you appreciate the implications. Intellectual plagiarism, definitely--
I can replicate it, [ he says, cutting himself off, starting again, switching track gracelessly but somehow seamlessly. ] You could replicate it -- I mean, theoretically, with the right materials. Its core is lyrium-based, but its a refined form that makes it safe to handle, even if you're not a. Dwarf. The process that brings it from one state to another basically accelerates the rate of decay of whatever energy it puts out that makes people go loony and whatever.
What this thing does is exploit that process of decay in which the outer ring redirects that energy, replenishing it, activating the lyrium core so that it behaves like raw lyrium which, as we all know, acts as kind of a conduit between the real world and the Fade, through which you can draw.
Magic. For lack of a better term. I was thinking like 'Fade-iation', personally, don't know if that'll catch on. It's what I've been calling it in my head.
[Her hand stays put - at first as an afterthought and then as some kind of stabilizing presence.
In the factory districts of Somerset, there are the textile mills with their massive looms and their network of moving parts and threaded tines all running perpetually by great turning wheels. She has seen one still only once, and she thinks of it now— the process of sending it spinning again, and the power it drove and was driven by.
She isn'ta creature bred for homesickness, but maybe this is some cousin to it. He certainly paints a lovely picture.
Wistfully:]
Fade-iation sounds ridiculous. [Sharpening now—] But oh, the rest of it is quite marvelous! What is the ratio of lyrium between the inner core and the outer ring? And then, is the power feeding into a series of traditional runes? If yes, then the modification of the use of that power would be as simple as a cast of new engravings. My Gods, can you imagine the practical implications! You could enchant the whole of Riftwatch down to their shoe nails, given enough material.
Unlike technical terminology like 'magic', you mean.
[ Which is the kind of dig that doesn't work on people who use it thus, but it's still the principle of the thing. There's a half-smile there, anyway, implying he's given at least a little thought to the practical applications.
And seems to relax a little, like the hard part -- whatever that was -- is over, and he crosses a leg over the other. ]
You can look over the specs I got written up next time you're up at the Gallows, but yeah, it feeds into-- [ He makes a circular motion with his hand, the usual delay before he has to say some bullshit. ] --a runic pattern, powering an enchantment. Figured that was in your wheelhouse.
Did you know that the Provost doesn't want us to make weapons, by the way?
[That draws her up very abruptly. She stiffens where she is all but laid across the table alongside him, her pen—since when did she have one?—midway through scratching a furious note at the corner of the piece of paper provided him.]
What? [Pardon. She must not have heard properly. In fact she is quite positive. There is simply no way.] He didn't tell you that.
[The intensity with which she studies him is very sharp indeed. Her examination is fixed, pointed as a rigorously sharpened pencil, and for a split second some latent and habitual suspicion blooms behind the lines of her features. And then Wysteria makes a small, irritated noise and returns to completing her scratching note.]
Then I suppose it's a good thing I haven't spoken a word of my project to him. I would hope that to remain the case. [She shoots him a quick, sidelong glance.] Until it's ready to be produced properly, I mean.
[ He is pleased in a quietly self-satisfied way. With her reaction and also himself for anticipating it, probably, the corner of his mouth turned upwards and amusement stamped into the lines at his eyes. ]
Can't make a pitch without a product, or-- an operable prototype.
[ They also probably can't make an operable prototype without some necessary resources that neither of them can afford, but that's literally never been an insurmountable obstacle for one Tony Stark. And even now, he thinks: someone has money somewhere, always. ]
Got some other ideas, applications, we can jam it out in due course. I'd start moving more operations out this way but this place has the surveillance and security of a finely decorated cardboard box with a ghost in it.
We are in agreement entirely. I believe this place could be an excellent showcase for Riftwatch's talent to the public- diplomats and nobility and that sort of thing -, but it's far too removed to house anything of a particularly delicate nature. Papers and components for this should by all rights live in the Gallows.
I'll inform Monsieur de Foncé of the new development terms - the bit about the Provost, not this. [A tap of her pen on the paper.] He has already been sworn to keep mum on the subject, but it wouldn't do any harm to reinforce— Have I introduced the two of you yet? It's not important. He is truly intolerable. But I gather he has rich friends, or at least has sworn he has the capacity to provide for the project.
[She is chattering along, and changes tack so smoothly that it seems quite natural:] I was at the Battle of Ghislain and have been through the training yards, you know. I have seen gentlemen with their shirts open, if that's what you're concerned over, Mr Stark.
[With a nod and a raise of her eyebrows toward the center of his chest.]
[ he says, after having gone on a journey to do with rich friends and a plan coming together, only to realise that his conversation partner has arrived at a whole other destination, ]
because I left my smelling salts back at the Gallows. That woulda been embarrassing.
[ But he makes a face, anyway, about having not so successfully dodged the actual 'show' moment of the show and tell. Still. He lazily sets about loosening the ties of his shirt, unwilling to straighten up out of his recline.
Doesn't matter, the whole cat is out of the bag and running wild. No need for you, lingering apprehension, get out of here. ]
Honestly, it's a miracle you never asked me to take off my shirt before now. Please keep your hands to yourself, our HR department is an honour system.
[ And once the shirt is opened low enough, he holds fabric aside. Given he hasn't spoken very much about what it actually is, what it's doing in his chest, it might be a little jarring to be confronted with a whole device apparently lodged deep where muscle and bone is supposed to be -- and we don't ask questions around the feasibility of that situation -- rather than something simply resting atop.
It glows a steady blue, very lyrium-y, light trapped in finely worked crystal under which are hazy patterns of some geometric structure that might hold the core he'd described, or contribute in some way to the enchantment -- it's hard to say, without taking the thing apart. ]
Of course, Mr. Stark. I wouldn't dream of it. [Honestly; what does he take her for?
Wysteria doesn't straighten. After all, her particular vantage from leaning across the table to gain access to the paper placed before him makes for a far better angle to observe than from above. And for a long beat after the device is exposed, she is simply very quiet and keen: leaning faintly closer to peer into the clouded depths of the object so that the waxy blue light catches against filaments of her pale hair. As promised, her hands remain obediantly to herself.]
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[Sullenly, speaking as someone working in the Seneschal's office:] All your paperwork will have to be updated.
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[ Hmm. Nope, this is the ideal outcome. ]
That won't take you too long. I never even got a driver's license.
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Got something to show you when you're done with my paperwork.
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I will meet you at the club just past noon. Will there be anything else for now, Mr. Stark?
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Now. What was it you meant to show me?
[She had been disappointed that he hadn't arrived with some package under his arm and is being short with him now. Do not waste her time, Mr. Whatever Your Name Is.]
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What is this, a concentrate? You're not meant to drink those, but hey, next time I'll bring some sandalwood, you, uh, look like you could use it.
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Okay, and I came out all this way and had to play dodgeball with My Little Poltergeist back there, so humour me for half a sec, will ya.
[ He sets the cup down, considers the question, then settles on; ]
It's my heart. Kind of.
[ He taps the centre of his chest, where she's inevitably glimpsed the circular glow that lives there, mostly obscured now in thicker winter fabrics. ]
Heart-adjacent.
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Your heart. 'Kind of' and 'adjacent' to. —Might you consider some form of actual elaboration, Mr. Stark?
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[ Hands splayed, snipping more for the sake of snipping than being particularly injured that she'd like to get to the point. ]
This thing is-- was a reactor from my homeworld. A battery, uh, powersource. I built it. Coming in hot through the rift changed it into some'n else and a little while ago I cracked it. Not literally, I mean, I reverse engineered its-- runic magic lyrium bullshit into something I could understand. Replicate.
Thought you'd get a kick out of it, [ he adds, while raising his cup again. ] I'm gonna need you to sign an NDA after this, by the way.
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That she comes by much more honestly.]
You have a lyrium powered device generating more power. And you could reproduce it— [Is she a little breathless?] Or someone could. Not you obviously, unless we want you going mad, but the principle of the thing—
[And then she is up from the table in a flurry of skirts, moving about the kitchen.] Oh, this is something. You have no idea how applicable this could be to my project. I've been looking for a solution to the cycling of magical energy problem. There is a period of refraction from most basic enchantment designed to activate like [a snap of the fingers] but minimizing that period would— Here.
[A piece of paper and pencil are slapped eagerly down before him, the gilt saucer for his cup removed well outside of easy reach.]
You must explain it in great detail. [And] Do you suppose I might see it?
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More for the fact that it's necessary, that this time, this place, he's not gonna get anywhere clutching onto closely guarded technological secrets as he had back home. Not when the technology isn't really his anymore, not really, transformed and monstrous, and only good for keeping pieces of metal out of his heart and nothing else if he doesn't trust one person.
And the one person he trusted is gone.
Still, he'd known a bit of relief, a bit of old fashioned scientific excitement, imparting this information to Howard, and it wasn't pure daddy issues, okay, because he can feel a glimmer of that when she gets it, and her brain starts racing, and her mouth starts running.
SpEaKiNg Of wHiCh-- ]
Yeah, here's-- alright. [ He places a hand atop paper and pencil as if to still Wysteria's momentum. ] This next part is important, and I need you to say with words that you're not gonna start leaking trade secrets all over the place. Not to your croquet picnic pals, and not to the leadership, and not to anyone in between.
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Good enough. ]
Yeah, [ he says, quick agreement, instead of laughing. ] I appreciate it, and I appreciate, uh, that you appreciate the implications. Intellectual plagiarism, definitely--
I can replicate it, [ he says, cutting himself off, starting again, switching track gracelessly but somehow seamlessly. ] You could replicate it -- I mean, theoretically, with the right materials. Its core is lyrium-based, but its a refined form that makes it safe to handle, even if you're not a. Dwarf. The process that brings it from one state to another basically accelerates the rate of decay of whatever energy it puts out that makes people go loony and whatever.
What this thing does is exploit that process of decay in which the outer ring redirects that energy, replenishing it, activating the lyrium core so that it behaves like raw lyrium which, as we all know, acts as kind of a conduit between the real world and the Fade, through which you can draw.
Magic. For lack of a better term. I was thinking like 'Fade-iation', personally, don't know if that'll catch on. It's what I've been calling it in my head.
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In the factory districts of Somerset, there are the textile mills with their massive looms and their network of moving parts and threaded tines all running perpetually by great turning wheels. She has seen one still only once, and she thinks of it now— the process of sending it spinning again, and the power it drove and was driven by.
She isn'ta creature bred for homesickness, but maybe this is some cousin to it. He certainly paints a lovely picture.
Wistfully:]
Fade-iation sounds ridiculous. [Sharpening now—] But oh, the rest of it is quite marvelous! What is the ratio of lyrium between the inner core and the outer ring? And then, is the power feeding into a series of traditional runes? If yes, then the modification of the use of that power would be as simple as a cast of new engravings. My Gods, can you imagine the practical implications! You could enchant the whole of Riftwatch down to their shoe nails, given enough material.
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[ Which is the kind of dig that doesn't work on people who use it thus, but it's still the principle of the thing. There's a half-smile there, anyway, implying he's given at least a little thought to the practical applications.
And seems to relax a little, like the hard part -- whatever that was -- is over, and he crosses a leg over the other. ]
You can look over the specs I got written up next time you're up at the Gallows, but yeah, it feeds into-- [ He makes a circular motion with his hand, the usual delay before he has to say some bullshit. ] --a runic pattern, powering an enchantment. Figured that was in your wheelhouse.
Did you know that the Provost doesn't want us to make weapons, by the way?
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What? [Pardon. She must not have heard properly. In fact she is quite positive. There is simply no way.] He didn't tell you that.
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[ --in his best Thranduil voice. ]
Literally. I didn't even pitch any, I just said I used to make 'em. He doesn't want anything that could be used against us by the bad guys.
[ Which is fair. Obviously. But he didn't sign anything, and appears fairly relaxed as he shares this news, watching her all the while. ]
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Then I suppose it's a good thing I haven't spoken a word of my project to him. I would hope that to remain the case. [She shoots him a quick, sidelong glance.] Until it's ready to be produced properly, I mean.
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[ He is pleased in a quietly self-satisfied way. With her reaction and also himself for anticipating it, probably, the corner of his mouth turned upwards and amusement stamped into the lines at his eyes. ]
Can't make a pitch without a product, or-- an operable prototype.
[ They also probably can't make an operable prototype without some necessary resources that neither of them can afford, but that's literally never been an insurmountable obstacle for one Tony Stark. And even now, he thinks: someone has money somewhere, always. ]
Got some other ideas, applications, we can jam it out in due course. I'd start moving more operations out this way but this place has the surveillance and security of a finely decorated cardboard box with a ghost in it.
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I'll inform Monsieur de Foncé of the new development terms - the bit about the Provost, not this. [A tap of her pen on the paper.] He has already been sworn to keep mum on the subject, but it wouldn't do any harm to reinforce— Have I introduced the two of you yet? It's not important. He is truly intolerable. But I gather he has rich friends, or at least has sworn he has the capacity to provide for the project.
[She is chattering along, and changes tack so smoothly that it seems quite natural:] I was at the Battle of Ghislain and have been through the training yards, you know. I have seen gentlemen with their shirts open, if that's what you're concerned over, Mr Stark.
[With a nod and a raise of her eyebrows toward the center of his chest.]
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[ he says, after having gone on a journey to do with rich friends and a plan coming together, only to realise that his conversation partner has arrived at a whole other destination, ]
because I left my smelling salts back at the Gallows. That woulda been embarrassing.
[ But he makes a face, anyway, about having not so successfully dodged the actual 'show' moment of the show and tell. Still. He lazily sets about loosening the ties of his shirt, unwilling to straighten up out of his recline.
Doesn't matter, the whole cat is out of the bag and running wild. No need for you, lingering apprehension, get out of here. ]
Honestly, it's a miracle you never asked me to take off my shirt before now. Please keep your hands to yourself, our HR department is an honour system.
[ And once the shirt is opened low enough, he holds fabric aside. Given he hasn't spoken very much about what it actually is, what it's doing in his chest, it might be a little jarring to be confronted with a whole device apparently lodged deep where muscle and bone is supposed to be -- and we don't ask questions around the feasibility of that situation -- rather than something simply resting atop.
It glows a steady blue, very lyrium-y, light trapped in finely worked crystal under which are hazy patterns of some geometric structure that might hold the core he'd described, or contribute in some way to the enchantment -- it's hard to say, without taking the thing apart. ]
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Wysteria doesn't straighten. After all, her particular vantage from leaning across the table to gain access to the paper placed before him makes for a far better angle to observe than from above. And for a long beat after the device is exposed, she is simply very quiet and keen: leaning faintly closer to peer into the clouded depths of the object so that the waxy blue light catches against filaments of her pale hair. As promised, her hands remain obediantly to herself.]
My. It's very striking, isn't it?
[--Is what she begins to say.]
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sweeps this thread back into my notifs gdi
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