The coughing elicits an unexpected belly laugh from Barrow, nearly resulting in a choke himself, but he pounds his chest and staves it off in time. It’s been a while since he saw such a display of innocence, and it’s well-needed in a moment like this.
“Spirit healer,” he repeats, collecting himself, “were you in a Circle? Or did you come up after all that?”
He's still coughing a little as he smiles with good-natured, watery-eyed chagrin at Barrow's laughter, which is probably why he answers unthinkingly, "Vyrantium, but only for a few years," when Barrow asks his question. (A couple of hazy summers in his teens spent in wide-eyed admiration of the sharply dressed literati and intelligentsia within the ivory towers of the Vyrantium Circle, suffusing himself with the knowledge contained within its libraries and, on occasion, making some very bad personal decisions at the Nug Queen tavern by the docks. One of these things made it into the letters he wrote back to his mother; the other absolutely did not.)
The acrid burn of the smoke can't be good for the books, and so Octavius leans over to flip the latch and nudge the nearby window open just enough to let the smoke escape out into the crisp air outside.
It's around now that the smirk is wiped off Barrow's face by the sound of a voice over the crystal, which pulls him into this conversation. He mumbles his responses quietly, slightly turned away from Tavi, suddenly all business; periodically he looks over at the lad, perhaps only to make sure he hasn't moved or changed in any way, but any suspicions he might have initially had are beginning to lessen.
"I'm in the library with one of the new arrivals," he mutters, "but we'll make our way down to the dining hall." Still holding the crystal in one hand, he rises from his chair and tips his head to beckon Tavi along. "Maybe see if we can get a group forming."
Once he's finished speaking, he lowers the crystal and addresses the lad once again, his features softening: "ever played Wicked Grace?"
Octavius is trying to waft the combined smoke out the window while Barrow engages in his bit of surreptitious chatter, cigarette clamped precariously between his lips while he does so. Once Barrow stands up, however, Octavius looks up to him owlishly for just a second before he tugs the window closed, limberly gets to his feet, and tucks his books into his satchel with all the ease of a scholar accustomed to quickly clearing out of a library because he's lost track of time.
"Wicked Grace? A bit, with my step-brothers," he answers, takes a slightly less wheezing puff from his cigarette, and falls into step beside his chaperone. Another cough; he probably won't be taking up smoking regularly anytime soon. "I'm terrible at it though. What's in the dining hall?" Seems a bit early for a meal, but then again, grief does weird things to one's sense of the passage of time.
"Us, soon to be," Barrow answers, brusque but friendly, in his way, "and anyone else who might wander along. Best to have groups of more than two at the moment, all things considered."
His pace is unhurried, but a tension in his brow belies how much effort he's putting into keeping things light and calm.
"Right," Octavius says, albeit a touch uncertainly. Privately, he's not sure how larger groups will protect against a demon (or an abomination) who is that committed to subterfuge. But Barrow seems like he's got control over the situation, and if there is one thing that has not changed about Octavius in the intervening seven years, it's that he will always be lulled into a false sense of security by an authority figure taking charge during a crisis. And so he follows along without objection.
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“Spirit healer,” he repeats, collecting himself, “were you in a Circle? Or did you come up after all that?”
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The acrid burn of the smoke can't be good for the books, and so Octavius leans over to flip the latch and nudge the nearby window open just enough to let the smoke escape out into the crisp air outside.
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"I'm in the library with one of the new arrivals," he mutters, "but we'll make our way down to the dining hall." Still holding the crystal in one hand, he rises from his chair and tips his head to beckon Tavi along.
"Maybe see if we can get a group forming."
Once he's finished speaking, he lowers the crystal and addresses the lad once again, his features softening: "ever played Wicked Grace?"
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"Wicked Grace? A bit, with my step-brothers," he answers, takes a slightly less wheezing puff from his cigarette, and falls into step beside his chaperone. Another cough; he probably won't be taking up smoking regularly anytime soon. "I'm terrible at it though. What's in the dining hall?" Seems a bit early for a meal, but then again, grief does weird things to one's sense of the passage of time.
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His pace is unhurried, but a tension in his brow belies how much effort he's putting into keeping things light and calm.
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