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[quaestionespatris]

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kool-aid mans through the wall

[thereneverwas]

The man who arrives in the library is enormous and winded, in part because the lift was occupied and thus he had to haul his entire arthritic bulk up five flights of stairs. He props himself on the doorframe as he scans the room, seeking any unfamiliar faces.

[quaestionespatris]

Octavius is sitting at one of the desks near a window, surrounded by a stack of books that he is not paying a bit of attention to. He is staring out the window with a look of bleak, abject misery writ transparently across his face. It's possible this display could all be the work of an exceptionally cunning spy. Pretty unlikely, though.

He looks up when he hears heavy footsteps approaching the door, but his eyes are still miles away.

[thereneverwas]

Seeing that the lad is fairly settled in, Barrow takes it as an invitation to saunter over and collapse into a seat himself, where he takes a moment to look over the piles of books.

"Just arrived?" he asks quietly, still catching his breath.

[quaestionespatris]

His eyes track Barrow's approach without really looking at him, but then his manners kick in. The probable death of someone he hasn't even spoken to in almost seven years is no excuse to be rude. Octavius pulls himself together, with difficulty.

"Just a few days ago," he says quietly. He doesn't bother trying to mask his accent; hiding it just makes it all the more noticeable that he's trying to hide something. "It's not quite what I thought it would be, I suppose."

[thereneverwas]

Fortunately for Octavius, Barrow isn't exactly a master of accents; it obviously sounds posh to his ears, and he can usually pick out Orlesian or Antivan, but otherwise, the kid could be from anywhere.

He, on the other hand, sounds about as common as they come.

"Fun never stops," he remarks, digging a pre-rolled cigarette out of a pouch on his belt and lighting it with his Riftwatch-issue runestone, falling silent a moment as he gives it a testing puff or two. Once satisfied by his work, he leans back with a quiet, decidedly middle-aged-sounding groan, and takes a proper drag.

"Sorry this has to be how we meet," he adds, "Byerly vouched for you, but I've still got to do the whole rigmarole. What brought you to the Gallows?"

[quaestionespatris]

Barrow's demeanour may be common but it's also acutely familiar in a way Octavius hasn't thought about in years. It puts him in mind of evenings spent sitting in the guard house with Rufus, enjoying a cup of coffee while his mother's household guard captain entertained him with nonsense stories about the day's work. He smiles a little, then takes a breath and sits up a little bit more in his seat.

(He reminds himself that he can't wear his grief publicly; it would raise too many questions.)

"I guess I just wanted to see the world," he says, and when he adds, grimacing, "and I ran out of money in Kirkwall," it helps that he doesn't have to lie about it. He did run out of money. More accurately, his money ran out on him. (Blasted urchins.) He clears his throat uncomfortably.

[thereneverwas]

"All right," Barrow says with a certain processing air; he's still weary from the climb, and can't quite find it in himself to be suspicious of someone who nobody knows anyway. What would he even ask him, to be sure?

"Shit timing, innit," he remarks, raising his eyes to meet Tavi's with a sort of weary amusement. "Not an Envy demon, are you?"

[quaestionespatris]

"Not an Envy demon, are you?"

That gets a dull, humourless huff of laughter out of him, before his lips twist into a sad little smile. He shakes his head. "No, I'm not."

His eyes flick from the pages of the book open in front of him to the cigarette Barrow is smoking. Impulsively, he asks, "Could I have one of those?"

[thereneverwas]

"Wonderful," is Barrow's dry response-- whether he believes him or not is irrelevant, frankly-- followed by a grunted "mm?" when Octavius asks for a cigarette. He looks down at his remaining stock, then fumbles around for another one and passes it over.

"Careful," he mutters, "Rifter healer says they're bad for you." Puff puff.

[quaestionespatris]

He's already leaning across the desk to accept the cigarette between two fingers, looking quite posh (in a depression chic sort of way) as he settles back into his seat. He turns the little cigarette this way and that for a second, places it between his lips.

"It's fine," he says tiredly, "I'm a spirit healer, I'll just," and he makes a fanciful, sparkly gesture with one hand--a universal gesture for magicking away one's problems, maybe--before conveniently conjuring a little flame from one fingertip to light the cigarette.

He holds it up to the end of the cigarette, lights it, takes a few puffs, and predictably proceeds to cough like he's never smoked a cigarette before in his life. Because he hasn't. "Thanks," he rasps anyway.

crystals;

[wythersake]

[ without preamble, ]

Which spirit?

[ even odds whether his voice rings familiar, doesn't. riftwatch is small, and the infirmary rota smaller: there's only one male, orlesian, chain-smoker in there. but it's only there on night shift. ]

[quaestionespatris]

[he nearly drops his mandola in the middle of trying to tune the blasted thing.] Kaffas, [a sharp exhale while he clutches at the crystal over his chest; he's still not used to the bloody thing yet.]

I'm sorry, what?

[wythersake]

You're marked on the schedule as a spirit healer,

[ so: chop chop, answers. ]

[quaestionespatris]

Devotion.

[snippily--look, now he's got to retune this string all over again, that's annoying--but his bad mood burns hot and fizzles out quickly. frowning at his instrument as he resumes his work,] Why do you want to know?

['who is this' he doesn't ask, just in case he's supposed to know, and has forgotten already.]

[wythersake]

I suppose that must beat a spirit of kaffas -

[ terribly convenient for a vint mage to summon loyalty, isn't it? a suspicious man might wonder. ]

What demands does it place on you?

[ a why, in so many words. ]

[quaestionespatris]

That I spurn any overtures from Valour, mostly. Which suits me fine, I never got the knack of offensive spell-casting.

[wary,] Do you doubt my credentials? I answered all of the head healer's questions already.

[wythersake]

The good Doctor lacks context which you and I consider common. I doubt him aware of the restrictions and risks which spirits may ask. Compassion would not kill these fleas, Wisdom tells that a lesson is learned more thoroughly of pain. Etcetera.

[ interesting leap to credentials. noted. ]

[quaestionespatris]

'Devotion will be your steadfast guide through an indifferent wilderness,' yes. I didn't realize your southern idioms were so similar to ours.

[what a marvellous moment of cultural exchange they're having.]

[wythersake]

The Orlesian involves a cliff.

[quaestionespatris]

Does it? How does it go then--not, 'Devotion will be your guide off an indifferent cliff,' surely.

[sounds like something he'd find in one of his mother's dense, depressing Nevarran novels.]

crystals; beep beep have i got work for you

[portalling]

( Also without preamble; sry Tavi that all your coworkers are like this: )

Have you ever tried using spirit healing for long-term ailments?

[quaestionespatris]

[he'll get used to it.

quizzical, but otherwise pleasant enough:]

Not personally, no. [a pause, and then,] I have come across some speculative literature on the topic in the libraries of the Vyrantium Circle, but the approaches they explored were a little, well.

[rife with blood magic?]

Unorthodox.

Why do you ask?

[portalling]

( Ohhh he wants to read that literature— )

I’ve a potential patient for you, a fellow colleague in Research. The condition he references was called lung blight, and I’d like to see if spirit healing can manage his symptoms on an ongoing basis, or at least prevent them from getting progressively worse.

There is some precedent for regular magical intervention at least assisting somewhat; but my own magic doesn’t lend itself to healing.

sorry for the delay, Life™️ happened

[quaestionespatris]

[the tell-tale sound of pages of a book flipping open; Octavius must be in the library.]

Lung blight--I'm not familiar with it, but it's possible we call it something else up north. [a touch cheerier,] Of course, I'm happy to come take a look. Is he in the infirmary now?

np i am a snail

[portalling]

Not yet. I wanted to discuss it with you first and hear what you thought about adding this to your plate of regular responsibilities, since it’s essentially taking on your own patient for the duration. As a chronic illness, it would require regular checkups and monitoring and intervention. The sort of thing I’d do, normally, but I’m reminding myself to delegate more.

And— ( ‘Up north’. There’s a brief pause, a beat which might be a bitten-back laugh. ) You’d have to reach a little further afield, I’m afraid. It’s for a rifter. Viktor. Some discretion and patience required, as well. He’s not the most forthcoming of patients.

( This is an understatement. )