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.
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."
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?"
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.
"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?"
"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.
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.
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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"Just arrived?" he asks quietly, still catching his breath.
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"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."
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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?"
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(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.
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"Shit timing, innit," he remarks, raising his eyes to meet Tavi's with a sort of weary amusement. "Not an Envy demon, are you?"
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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?"
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"Careful," he mutters, "Rifter healer says they're bad for you." Puff puff.
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"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.
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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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