Have you eaten an orange?
[ the letter isn't new.
a day or two have passed since its receipt; personally addressed, and so personally delivered — that itself a small deliverance. the idea of de fontaine (worse: leander) laying hands to it is, ]
Mssr. Dalat. This is Isaac, we spoke in the library.
[ well. it isn't new. ]
a day or two have passed since its receipt; personally addressed, and so personally delivered — that itself a small deliverance. the idea of de fontaine (worse: leander) laying hands to it is, ]
Mssr. Dalat. This is Isaac, we spoke in the library.
[ well. it isn't new. ]
[Mhavos' handwriting is crisp and formal.]
Good to hear from you, so to speak. How may I help you?
Good to hear from you, so to speak. How may I help you?
I have money now. [A pause.] But I do not know what to save it for.
[late one night, she decides clarity is required, just in case.]
I do not want to talk about it.
I do not want to talk about it.
[Ah.]
Then we won't.
Have you picked out your cowl?
Then we won't.
Have you picked out your cowl?
[ a cloth-wrapped copy of the dialogues of luisa sigea, in fairly good condition is delivered by a surly Walrus man to the archives with a note:
I've heard this one is highly recommended. — J. Silver ]
I've heard this one is highly recommended. — J. Silver ]
[The fellow from the Walrus is sent back with two coins for the delivery, and a note for Silver, reading:]
I appreciate your concern for my literary education. -M.D.
I appreciate your concern for my literary education. -M.D.
crystal, unprompted, unasked for, likely very close to bedtime
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rowancrowned
2019-10-10 02:03 am (UTC)(link)
Why my lady's poetry in particular?
[Never has Mhavos ever wanted to shout 'I'm gay don't hurt me' before.]
In what sense?
In what sense?
Calling the hubbub in the hours prior to the first staggered departures from the Gallows toward Nevarra chaotic would be a devaluation of the work everyone is applying themselves to. But they are irritatingly full, which makes finding some spare moment to stop by the office adjacent to the library rather difficult. However, in what might be described as a truly herculean effort (were Hercules a thing in either Thedas or Kalvad, though if we start fiddling with linguistics on that scale we're going to quickly get into truly dicey territory), Wysreria somehow wrings a few extra seconds in the day to manage it.
That probably explains why she's huffing and puffing, short of breath, as she thrusts a neatly wrapped package into Mhavos' unsuspecting hands.
"Happy Satinalia. It's a scarf and wool socks and a little perfume bag for the next time you find something wretched in the stacks. I hope you don't hate the smell of lavender. And here's a pear as well. You should take it with you and eat it on the road. It will rot otherwise."
That probably explains why she's huffing and puffing, short of breath, as she thrusts a neatly wrapped package into Mhavos' unsuspecting hands.
"Happy Satinalia. It's a scarf and wool socks and a little perfume bag for the next time you find something wretched in the stacks. I hope you don't hate the smell of lavender. And here's a pear as well. You should take it with you and eat it on the road. It will rot otherwise."
"Uh-" It all happens fast enough to leave Mhavos momentarily speechless, blinking in the half-light. "Thank- thank you. This is a very kind gift."
He has no idea how to accept it. It seems too lavish. It's far kinder than the gifts he got most others. "I like lavender very well. I- I fear I didn't get you anything; I'll rectify that as soon as we return."
A solemn promise.
He has no idea how to accept it. It seems too lavish. It's far kinder than the gifts he got most others. "I like lavender very well. I- I fear I didn't get you anything; I'll rectify that as soon as we return."
A solemn promise.
Why did you give Matthias a gift for me?
[Curious, not accusatory, thus far.]
[Curious, not accusatory, thus far.]
You speak of him often. It's the only frame of reference I have, beyond that frightfully vague note.
...And if I am going to get an entire pie for someone, I'd rather be sure someone will enjoy it.
...And if I am going to get an entire pie for someone, I'd rather be sure someone will enjoy it.
Mhavos is hauled back from Nevarra dead-eyed and hollow. It's assumed he's shell shocked, and maybe he is. For Mhavos' own part, he just doesn't really care. He'd wanted to kill again, to prove his worth. And he thinks he did-- they can't deny he's useful, anymore than they can say he isn't their tool.
Somehow, however, this is different.
Mhavos has always been a quiet man, taking refuge in solitude, but now, everything that isn't the gentle retreat of busywork makes his teeth itch. He's set on edge-- there's no point to any of this. Why do people talk, when they ought to work? Why do they pretend their lives mean... anything?
We're all just so much meat. There's something comforting, to the mummies, the crypts, the death he remembers in Nevarra. They knew.
They knew.
It's a sunny, bright day when Mhavos is taking a new index of the Research Department's artifact storage. They seem to accumulate donations at a steady pace, and Mhavos is glad of the work. He's still keeping an eye out for spies-- he always is-- but that part of his mind lives in a separate place, never dormant but not requiring acknowledgement. He is his own automaton, independent, not requiring food or sleep, just work to keep him busy.
He hears someone-- Thrandruil, no one else walks so quietly or has such a long gait-- and immediately moves to be out of their way. It's important to be as small and insignificant as possible. A sidestep, a dancer's grace momentarily rendered by nervous habit and perfect balance. He hops carefully, almost silently, onto a nearby chair, landing without disturbing anything, balanced on the balls of his feet, posture perfect.
Like a rabbit.
How droll. Another hop, and Mhavos is on his feet again, studying the object. Some sort of ancient musical instrument. "Apologies," he whispers, and hopes that will put paid to it.
Somehow, however, this is different.
Mhavos has always been a quiet man, taking refuge in solitude, but now, everything that isn't the gentle retreat of busywork makes his teeth itch. He's set on edge-- there's no point to any of this. Why do people talk, when they ought to work? Why do they pretend their lives mean... anything?
We're all just so much meat. There's something comforting, to the mummies, the crypts, the death he remembers in Nevarra. They knew.
They knew.
It's a sunny, bright day when Mhavos is taking a new index of the Research Department's artifact storage. They seem to accumulate donations at a steady pace, and Mhavos is glad of the work. He's still keeping an eye out for spies-- he always is-- but that part of his mind lives in a separate place, never dormant but not requiring acknowledgement. He is his own automaton, independent, not requiring food or sleep, just work to keep him busy.
He hears someone-- Thrandruil, no one else walks so quietly or has such a long gait-- and immediately moves to be out of their way. It's important to be as small and insignificant as possible. A sidestep, a dancer's grace momentarily rendered by nervous habit and perfect balance. He hops carefully, almost silently, onto a nearby chair, landing without disturbing anything, balanced on the balls of his feet, posture perfect.
Like a rabbit.
How droll. Another hop, and Mhavos is on his feet again, studying the object. Some sort of ancient musical instrument. "Apologies," he whispers, and hopes that will put paid to it.
"Pay me no mind," Thranduil says, giving him a once-over that he does not bother to hide. Tidy, that, even elegantly done, but he was not one to judge a book by its cover. Much. He hardly wanted inquiries into the origin or application of his own set of particular skills.
Mhavos' gymnastic feats only proved that he was getting exercise, probably, and not spending all of his days inside, doing the sort of tasks Thranduil was delighted to have off his plate. He could not overlook the welfare of one of his designated dependents simply because the man made his life much easier. Such was the micromanaging he found comfort in while deprived of the massive task of managing a kingdom.
"You have returned." This is a neutral statement; he might also say 'Kirkwall depresses me.' "Will you stay, or will you deprive me of your aid again soon?"
Mhavos' gymnastic feats only proved that he was getting exercise, probably, and not spending all of his days inside, doing the sort of tasks Thranduil was delighted to have off his plate. He could not overlook the welfare of one of his designated dependents simply because the man made his life much easier. Such was the micromanaging he found comfort in while deprived of the massive task of managing a kingdom.
"You have returned." This is a neutral statement; he might also say 'Kirkwall depresses me.' "Will you stay, or will you deprive me of your aid again soon?"
[ Delivered promptly, with a couple misspellings and errors that I’m too lazy to force autocorrect to tolerate. ]
There are more humans in Thedas than anyone else. They are typically taller than dwarves and smaller and less grey than Qunari. They are taller and broader than elves on average, but not as a rule. The best way to tell the difference between a human and an elf (if it isn’t otherwise obvious) is by ear shape. Humans’ are rounded. If their ears are covered and you are not sure, do not guess, because if you are wrong someone will be offended. Don’t ask, either. Just try not to talk about it.
Humans arrived in Thedas after elves and dwarves already lived here, but now they control the surface of the continent for the most part. Most of them are Andrastian. They are divided into different nations and tribes with separate languages and customs. Many of them consider elves, Qunari, dwarves, and humans with different accents than their own to be inferior, in that order.
There are more humans in Thedas than anyone else. They are typically taller than dwarves and smaller and less grey than Qunari. They are taller and broader than elves on average, but not as a rule. The best way to tell the difference between a human and an elf (if it isn’t otherwise obvious) is by ear shape. Humans’ are rounded. If their ears are covered and you are not sure, do not guess, because if you are wrong someone will be offended. Don’t ask, either. Just try not to talk about it.
Humans arrived in Thedas after elves and dwarves already lived here, but now they control the surface of the continent for the most part. Most of them are Andrastian. They are divided into different nations and tribes with separate languages and customs. Many of them consider elves, Qunari, dwarves, and humans with different accents than their own to be inferior, in that order.
Excellent work. I cannot thank you enough for both your willingness to participate, and the promptness with which you have done so.
Would you mind if I used this contribution as an example of the style & length I have in mind?
Further, how would you like to be credited, if at all?
Would you mind if I used this contribution as an example of the style & length I have in mind?
Further, how would you like to be credited, if at all?
Edited (lordt.) 2020-09-21 19:04 (UTC)
Hey Mhav, I ran the uh...powerful messages via literature idea by Bastien and he thinks it's, and I quote, "wonderful."
[ complete with fond imitation of his accent. it's not bad. ]
But he also doesn't think we should necessarily use real names, on account of the war and all. Not like a hard no, but ya know. Worthy of caution, I guess.
[ complete with fond imitation of his accent. it's not bad. ]
But he also doesn't think we should necessarily use real names, on account of the war and all. Not like a hard no, but ya know. Worthy of caution, I guess.
That's not my- Ugh. [He's trying, okay.]
I leave it up to your discretion, as storyteller extraordinaire, how much you would like anonymized. But for the sake of your own creative process, suggest you decide in advance how much will be obscured. All names? All organizations? The time period itself?
I leave it up to your discretion, as storyteller extraordinaire, how much you would like anonymized. But for the sake of your own creative process, suggest you decide in advance how much will be obscured. All names? All organizations? The time period itself?
OH NO! YOU’VE TRIPPED AND FALLEN THROUGH THE SKY!
Do you need to see a healer? If —
— Then scream. Shout, curse the god that Made you. And ask yourself once more: Do I really need to see a healer?
If the answer is NO, congratulations on your great fortune. Now stop reading.
If the answer is YES, you have options:
DOCTORS
Including: Surgeons, barbers, physicians, nurses, midwives, apothecaries, anyone with enough knives and moxie
A doctor might:
Disagreement over medical practice is more uniform than any practice itself, and not all areas of study are approved by the Chantry. In some regions, practitioners may require formal recognition; in every region, you may expect them to ignore that.
Riftwatch keeps several doctors at any given time. They should not ask you for any payment. If you seek treatment outside the Gallows, bring coin.
MAGES
Including: Creation healers, spirit healers, anyone with a fire spell and a hard-on for cauterization
A mage healer might:
* For your mutual safety, do not allow a mage to perform bloodletting or surgery on you.
Not every mage can heal. Of those who do, most work with what is called creation magic. This works much as any other spell.
A subset, spirit healers, instead channel the energy of spirits from the Fade. They may heal wounds more completely or quickly than other mages. This comes at a cost — Spirits may ask them for something in return.
Healing magic is not perfect. Every body, and every ailment, are different. Some will not respond to treatment, regardless of the skill of the mage.
Magic will never:
Most healers in Riftwatch are mages. No good healer will force magic upon you, but it's your responsibility to make any objections known. With your words — don't deck anyone.
RIFTER MEDICINE:
Some Rifters bring their own healing abilities and medical knowledge. The Infirmary currently recognizes the following procedures:
Rifters wishing to submit further tips, tricks, or pointed witticisms regarding the state of my life’s work are encouraged to contact the Provost, who maintains a collection. He will refer you where relevant.
— Enchanter Isaac, 9:46 D
PS: Bit more than two paragraphs, I know. Consider condensing to 'yell until someone helps'?
[ The handwriting is still questionable, but Ellis has clearly taken some pains to keep it from devolving too far into scribbling. ]
There is a fair amount of opinion around what a Blight is. For your purposes, a Blight occurs when creatures called darkspawn rally in great numbers around an archdemon and rise to the surface with the intent of destroying whatever they come across. An archdemon is an Old God, manifested in the form of a dragon. They do not accompany the darkspawn to the surface, but direct the hoards from deep below the surface. A Blight cannot end until the archdemon has been killed.
This has come to pass five times in recorded history, and hopefully shall not come again in your lifetime.
What you should concern yourself with are darkspawn, which are capable of tunneling to the surface and spreading disease and death as they travel. They are twisted figures, most stand upright on two legs and all ooze black from their eyes and mouth, and will bleed black if you manage to cut them. They are capable of breaking through to surface in smaller groups, though the threat of their presence should not be underestimated because they have not brought an army with them. You are likely to come across them in your time with Riftwatch. The wisest thing you can do if you come across darkspawn is run in the opposite direction, as attempting to fight one can either be your death at the end of their weapons or death from the taint, which spreads from contact with their blood. If you must fight them, stay ranged if you are able. Keep your mouth and nose covered, and aim for their heads. Shout warnings. It's likely there are more in the walls or beneath your feet, tunneling their way out. Take your first opportunity to extricate yourself. Do not deliberately engage darkspawn without a Grey Warden on hand to take point. After the danger is passed, the bodies of darkspawn and their victims must be burned to prevent spread of the taint.
There is no cure for the taint, so please do not take the danger lightly.
Thank you once again for doing me an absurd favor. This is an excellent introduction. May I add one line explaining what a Grey Warden is?
[The only person he's asked about editing ahead of time.]
[The only person he's asked about editing ahead of time.]
I wrote it before Raas volunteered, and have not yet received her submission.
It is truly awful, isn't it?
It is truly awful, isn't it?
[Footsteps barely audible in the hall, Fifi has been behind Mhavos and is now abruptly level with him, her head tilted in a friendly expression.]
Josephine, [she greets, extending one slender hand, and then in Orlesian:] I forget, sometimes, that there are others.
Josephine, [she greets, extending one slender hand, and then in Orlesian:] I forget, sometimes, that there are others.
Mhavos looks, briefly, like he's been cornered by a ghost, but it passes quickly, reformed into something pleasantly neutral. Why was he opposed to speaking with a fellow servant? He'd spent his whole life with them, before now.
Because she just pointed out your differences.
Oh, what a coward he is. He gives a little bow, curt and respectful, before continuing in Orlesian. "We do our best to be forgotten."
Because she just pointed out your differences.
Oh, what a coward he is. He gives a little bow, curt and respectful, before continuing in Orlesian. "We do our best to be forgotten."
Mhavos? [ talking to people this way is still pretty friggin weird and is there a correct way to start the conversation? to check and see if they're there?? this sucks. ] I wanted to check in and see how you're doing.
[At some point when Mhavos is walking the halls of the main tower, he will come across a little cream-and-white puppy gnawing the handle of a basket. From down the hall comes laughter and light drumming on the floor.]
Non, Sati, Sati, viens à moi!
[Catching sight of Mhavos, Fifi smiles at him and lifts one hand in a wave. When the puppy sees him, she instantly abandons the basket and begins to greet him enthusiastically.]
Non, Sati, Sati, viens à moi!
[Catching sight of Mhavos, Fifi smiles at him and lifts one hand in a wave. When the puppy sees him, she instantly abandons the basket and begins to greet him enthusiastically.]
Mhavos' reflexes can be genuinely catlike, though he tries to keep that in reserve. And then there's a damned dog barreling toward him, and in one agile hop, he's balanced perfectly on a windowsill, staring down at it as though it's vermin.
He tries to pull an accusational tone from his voice when he asks Fifi, in Orlesian, "is this yours?"
He tries to pull an accusational tone from his voice when he asks Fifi, in Orlesian, "is this yours?"
[ Sawbones does good work. Ellis knows this, and won't insult her by second-guessing it.
But his eyes do pass critically over Mhavos in the brief moment before Ellis takes the seat beside him at the fire. He doesn't say anything, at first. It seems as if the point is just to be on hand, either for Mhavos or his own reassurance. ]
But his eyes do pass critically over Mhavos in the brief moment before Ellis takes the seat beside him at the fire. He doesn't say anything, at first. It seems as if the point is just to be on hand, either for Mhavos or his own reassurance. ]
Mhavos has been quiet, since... the incident. He's been hurriedly writing in a small notebook he brought with him, frowning over the details and scratching them out as he goes along. The rapid healing, the intense pain, it makes him sleepy, doubting his thoughts, and so he writes, striving for a complete and unbiased survey of events.
He stops, panting a little, and closes his eyes. A hand, fingers dark with charcoal, reaches up to massage them. The effect is Mhavos looking a bit like he's wearing thick eyeshadow.
He gets back to work.
He stops, panting a little, and closes his eyes. A hand, fingers dark with charcoal, reaches up to massage them. The effect is Mhavos looking a bit like he's wearing thick eyeshadow.
He gets back to work.
One fine day, a homeless person wanders into the Riftwatch library.
At least, that's how he dresses, though Mhavos may have spotted this exact person clowning around in the Gallows courtyard or elsewhere, busking and singing for the entertainment of the lunchtime crowd on any given day. He isn't often spotted indoors, and it's with some visible trepidation that he makes his way into the room, a faint jingle with every step, his head turning this way and that as he takes it all in.
At least, that's how he dresses, though Mhavos may have spotted this exact person clowning around in the Gallows courtyard or elsewhere, busking and singing for the entertainment of the lunchtime crowd on any given day. He isn't often spotted indoors, and it's with some visible trepidation that he makes his way into the room, a faint jingle with every step, his head turning this way and that as he takes it all in.
Mhavos has been in libraries before. Most were private. A study, with an intricately catelogued personal collection of books, never to be shared, never to be levelled at others. Riftwatch's library is open to all, and, while this is sometimes taken advantage of, for the most part, Mhavos does not regret it.
Don't get him wrong-- if some puffed up Orlesian noble begins to damage the integrity of a book, he'll use whatever small powers he has to discipline them. But the ragged and barely-literate, the bedraggled jetsam that Riftwatch tends to pick up? Those rules are rather bent in their favor.
No one's caught Mhavos yet.
Sitting at one of the long tables, taken over entirely by what is cleary Mhavos' work, he turns to the newest patron. The jingling one. "Can I help you, serah?"
Don't get him wrong-- if some puffed up Orlesian noble begins to damage the integrity of a book, he'll use whatever small powers he has to discipline them. But the ragged and barely-literate, the bedraggled jetsam that Riftwatch tends to pick up? Those rules are rather bent in their favor.
No one's caught Mhavos yet.
Sitting at one of the long tables, taken over entirely by what is cleary Mhavos' work, he turns to the newest patron. The jingling one. "Can I help you, serah?"
It's already been a hell of a morning, and Vanadi has only been awake for about eight minutes. He deeply regrets having gone to bed alone last night — it would have been quite nice to wake up from the longest dream he's ever had to immediate company.
But here he is instead, knocking softly at Mhavos's door down the hall from his own, the sun only just beginning to consider rising. He has the key, of course, it's in a pocket, but some wariness at the back of his mind stops him from putting it to use — as if he doesn't actually want this door opened.
But that would be ridiculous.
Softly, to announce himself through the door as no random visitor, "Mhavos?"
But here he is instead, knocking softly at Mhavos's door down the hall from his own, the sun only just beginning to consider rising. He has the key, of course, it's in a pocket, but some wariness at the back of his mind stops him from putting it to use — as if he doesn't actually want this door opened.
But that would be ridiculous.
Softly, to announce himself through the door as no random visitor, "Mhavos?"
Mhavos, not seen sitting in total darkness, breathing slowly in and out, anything to fight the panic, finds the natural cure in company. Not that the company is curative, so much as he has such strong instincts not to panic, or outwardly reveal anything, when company is near. He deeply wants to see Vanadi, but hadn't considered himself deserving to call on him.
Now, he stands, straightens out his clothing-- not nearly so prim as usual, an undershirt and trousers and stockings only-- and light a few candles before he opens the door.
He looks fine, hair combed and eyes blank, but his voice comes out quiet, barely above a whisper. "Yes, Vanadi?"
Now, he stands, straightens out his clothing-- not nearly so prim as usual, an undershirt and trousers and stockings only-- and light a few candles before he opens the door.
He looks fine, hair combed and eyes blank, but his voice comes out quiet, barely above a whisper. "Yes, Vanadi?"
Whatever time Mhavos gets to the library, Noon will already be there. Still travel rumpled from his trip to acquire a few specific tomes for the library, he gives the general impression of an old hound returning with fresh game.
"Mornin' boss," he says, setting the books down on Mhavos' desk, "Heard folks had a regular shitkicker of a night while I was gone."
"Mornin' boss," he says, setting the books down on Mhavos' desk, "Heard folks had a regular shitkicker of a night while I was gone."
Mhavos is holding a cup of tea with two hands, as though it is the only thing keeping him upright. It isn't, but the appearance of weakness suits him well, just now.
"I've never heard that particular oath in Trade," he says, beginning to page through the volume, "I would call it apt."
"I've never heard that particular oath in Trade," he says, beginning to page through the volume, "I would call it apt."
The library is a comfort. She learned about one world in the library of a friend. It seems fitting to learn about this world in one as well. That it lacked the steadying presence of Julia and Nessie's boundless energy...
Well. That's a familiar ache at least. She's found clothes that fit and thus cuts a perfectly respectable figure, the shine of the bracelets no more out of place than the green glow set in her palm. She pauses at the clerk's desk and addresses the small man behind it, "I beg your pardon, sir, would you be M. Dalat?"
Well. That's a familiar ache at least. She's found clothes that fit and thus cuts a perfectly respectable figure, the shine of the bracelets no more out of place than the green glow set in her palm. She pauses at the clerk's desk and addresses the small man behind it, "I beg your pardon, sir, would you be M. Dalat?"
Mhavos has, since the dream, the incident, taken to wearing a draping shawl, drinking tea, and generally keeping to himself. He wants the look to express his frailty, his weakness, and the general idea that one ought not ask what transpired. If it works is anyone's guess, but Mhavos is leaning comfortably into the subterfuge.
He looks up when he hears his name called, and waves over the statuesque newcomer. "Of course. Mhavos is fine. How can I help you."
He looks up when he hears his name called, and waves over the statuesque newcomer. "Of course. Mhavos is fine. How can I help you."
Mhavos, I —
[ he went over this a million times in his head, but at the last second, he finds he just can't speak to a rock. a pause. ]
It's been some time. Would you care to join me for an evening walk?
[ he went over this a million times in his head, but at the last second, he finds he just can't speak to a rock. a pause. ]
It's been some time. Would you care to join me for an evening walk?
Edited 2021-03-10 23:40 (UTC)
[After a substantial pause, during which Mhavos tamps down on any emotions that might be brimming-]
If you've still the time, I would, yes.
If you've still the time, I would, yes.
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