[The Office of the Seneschal is one of those cavernous spaces which has been made small by being filled with all manner of things. Between the boxes and crates, the desks and sorting tables, the great towers of paperwork, the floor to ceiling shelving and filing draws, and the windows being quite narrow and very high in the wall, it takes on the characteristics of a dusty library being caught mid-explosion.
The center of the chaos is an especially ill-ordered desk tucked off to the side of the workspace where a young woman is busily dashing off a reply to some inquiry or another. It is strictly not the desk of the Seneschal--that must be the one farther back into the room that looks a little like a desperately ordered life raft adrift in a hurricane of paperwork--, and yet its occupant is indeed surely the only person in the room who might have such a name.
Also, the curl of her flowery handwriting matches that of the survey. Also, she looks up when addressed. So fine guesses all round.]
Oh! [She all but flings away the papers before her, pivoting in her chair to face him. Belatedly, deciding it is likely the more respectable things to do, she springs up to her feet.] You must be the knight! How lovely. Is that my survey you've come to return?
[Knight she says, and he opts not to correct her in that. Archadia’s titles appear unique to itself when compared with Thedas’ own standards, and he supposes it's a close enough descriptor.
Even if it is a little Dalmascan for his taste.
Instead there’s a rigid nod offered in response to her question— hand extended the moment she rises to her feet, posture lowering to meet her own. Formality, true, but there’s little harm in sparing it for an assistant who clearly holds a role (by his own rough assumption) of some import.]
Your research, what purpose does it serve.
[Understanding is one thing. Noble and respectable and vital even in the eyes of someone like him. But...
Well, he’s seen enough of Draklor to know pure knowledge is hardly ever the beginning and the end of things alike.]
[She looks at his hand as if surprised by it, and then thrust her own forward into it.]
We--Project Felandaris and Riftwatch and the Research Division, I suppose--are aiming to better understand the phenomena of Rifters and the development of the anchor shard's powers. The questionnaire is meant to assist in tracking certain patterns between Rifters and the places from which they come. Every Rifter answers it.
[You know. More or less. But he doesn't need to know those details!!]
[There's a short lull in conversation that fixes itself to however long it takes Gabranth to bow his head, her captive hand brought briefly closer to his helm in an overtly respectful gesture— before releasing it entirely. Never mind that chivalry cuts a stranger figure when framed by towers of stacked paper and spent ink.]
So you've still a distance to go, then, before you establish a more complete understanding of the process.
[From the faint flush up the back of her neck and the swift glance back over her shoulder to see if the Seneschal--who must be in the back room--has miraculously contrived to come forward and spot this exact charming moment, the venue seems of little import to her.
Wysteria retrieves her hand with a prim clearing of her throat.]
Oh yes. There are many theories of course, but it is all quite mysterious. Happily the native population has decided not to categorize us as demons from the Fade--a fairly recent development, it should be noted; when I first arrived, it was still a subject of conversation so I would advise you not raise the subject again in public for it may give people the wrong impression. But here in the Gallows we may discuss whatever theories come to mind.
I'm afraid I've little to offer in that regard. [Posture stiffened dutifully once more, it acts as punctuation for the point he clearly intends to make with that confession: a fighter knows the exact span of their worth, and studious endeavors are well, well beyond it.]
But if my answers will provide you with some small amount of insight, then know I satisfy myself with that comfort alone.
[—and to that end, he sets his own folded response down across the desk's edge. A tidy offering. ur welcome.]
[How dashing is a thought which absolutely worms its way to the forefront of Wysteria's mind, and is a comment which so judiciously keeps her mouth shut around. Instead, she fetches up the folded papers.]
I doubt that very much. You might be surprised, Ser Knight, exactly how much you know. Why, if you are not otherwise engaged at present we might even sit here a moment as I look over your answers so I may ask you a few further questions in respect to them. If any occur to me. They usually do.
[Rather than taking a seat, however, he simply positions himself in front of the desk, chin raised by degrees in a clear sign of attention— though the dark, high collar of his shirt obscures any potentially visible signs of humanity where the base of his helm ends.]
The full extent of my attention is yours, for as long as you require.
[What else is he to do anyway, really, aside from battle false targets on training grounds for hours on end. Besides, company in possession of even the barest semblance of respect is a remarkably pleasant change when compared to being struck in the head with rocks or spellwork.
Or arrows.
What is wrong with this world.]
Question 1A. Conceptually, how familiar are the Fade and the Veil to you? Are there similar phenomena (however minor the resemblance) in the place from which you came?
Similar enough. My comprehension is rudimentary, but the realm of the gods intersects each individual world within all known existence.
Question 2A. If yes, is energy drawn and/or emitted from or through it? Do cognizant beings (spirits, full bodied manifestations similar to a Rifter, and so on) pass through it?
In a sense. Those living— or unliving— brought by the gods into that central fulcrum have control enough over its existence to form distortions: portals into those other worlds, similar to your rifts. Should a distortion remain in place long enough, it will attract the presence of hostile creatures. Demons. Monsters. If it progresses beyond that, the world connected to it would be at risk for permanent disruption, or destruction.
Question 3A. Does "magic" exist in your world?
Indeed it does.
Question 3A.(i). If "magic" exists in your world, is it somehow tied to or sustained by this other space?
Perhaps. I cannot say.
Question 3A.(ii). If "magic" exists in your world and there is no such alternative dimension as referenced in Question 1A., from where does it originate?
The Mist exists in both my world of origin and the realm of the gods themselves. Its presence permits the use of powerful magicks— however I cannot say whether it originated in Ivalice and spread outward, or if the opposite is true.
Question 4A. Given the opportunity to objectively estimate your own physical conformation and comeliness against the general populace of the world from which you came, where on a scale of one through ten might you be ranked (for the purposes of this survey, please consider the numerical score of five (5) as average for your home world)? Disregard. This question has been deemed inessential.
Questionnaire Section B Rift Anchors, with Respect to All Who Presently Possess Them
Question 5B. How long have you had your rift shard? Irrelevant; it is assumed you received it upon arrival through the Rift. However, you are welcome to detail any notes you may have on it here.
No notes to speak of.
Question 6B. Are you able to perform any supernatural acts with the power of your rift shard beyond closing Rifts? If yes, please detail these abilities. Irrelevant; recorded with your personnel file. Please update W.A. Poppell should your rift anchor develop any additional effects.
As of now, I've yet to uncover any.
Question 7B. Do you have any other abilities, such as mage talent? If so, has the presence of the rift shard or your time in Thedas affected your ability whatsoever (please note whether this is a negative or a positive effect)?
I have found it to be more taxing. But perhaps that is simply due to the Mist itself running thinner here.
Question 8B. At what point would you take surgical measures to rid yourself of your anchor shard?
Ought it be considered?
Question 8B.(i). Would you permit scientific observation of the process?
If necessary, yes.
Question 8B.(ii). Would you permit samples to be taken from the limb?
Yes.
(PLEASE NOTE that the authors of this survey do not advocate for preemptive amputation unless strictly recommended by a trusted medical professional.)
[Well, if he doesn't wish to sit she can hardly make him. She is quite happy to turn her attention to the pages and takes her time in reviewing the answers written there, looming armored presence or no.
She hums her way along through the questionnaire, and at one point fetches up her pen she she might make a few notes in the margins, but otherwise all her comments and questions are dutifully saved for the end. After some minutes, the papers are lowered into her lap and her attention returns to him.]
A necessity, when relaying information to the Imperial Throne.
[It isn’t so much bragging as it is a prideful statement of fact: he’d mastered that skill with no small amount of effort, and even now— despite an eternity spent trudging ever onward as a wayward soul— he hasn’t yet forgotten it.]
Oh, well. [She shoots him a sidelong glance, pleased.] That is merely coincidence and not something that I've practiced at all. If you might believe it, it is considered to be very poorly done indeed where I come from.
[It sounds like the sort of silly deprecating nonsense that any polite young woman might claim, and they know too little of one another to really say otherwise. Were they perhaps more familiar--were he more aware, say, of Miss Poppell's boundless pride--, it might carry off in an entirely different fashion.
But that's neither here nor there for she moves briskly on from the subject.]
Your answer to question two-dash-A. These rift-like distortions. Do you have any direct experience with them, or are they merely things which you have heard stories of? And naturally you must describe to me the nature of your magicks. I shall not write it down if you wish to keep it off the record, but it is important to the nature of the office's research that I have some sense of its scope.
I believe I shall have to introduce you to Mister Dickerson as well. He is quite versed in the matter of intersecting planes and gods.
[That is...a great deal all at once, Wysteria. After a moment of stiffened silence, he manages a single nod: deciding that it might be best to tackle each subject individually, rather than attempt some sort of blanket coverage of all her talking points.
If he'd been skeptical as to whether or not she truly was a student of research, the matter is well and truly settled now.]
An eternity of direct experience. The distortions were easily controlled by any stolen from their original, intended lives within their own worlds. Much like Rifters here, in essence.
They could be opened at will to cross the distance between planes, or forced closed on a whim. I found no trouble in doing either throughout countless lifetimes spent within that realm.
[She begins to make notes on his filled out questionnaire from the moment he starts to answer, the scratch of her pen a dutiful rhythm in the crowded room which persists even as her eyebrows begin an upward trend toward her hairline. Indeed, the note-taking continues even when Wysteria at last looks up again to him, skepticism or perhaps confusion writ large on her face.]
Countless lifetimes? Might you explain that bit just a little?
[Perhaps it is an issue of translation. Cultural differences, you know.
[Cultural differences? No. Only the literal truth, it seems.]
Barring...rare, unintended circumstances [There's a point of faintness lingering there, like something bruised, uncomfortable to the touch.] those dwelling within the confines of the gods’ chosen realm would be endlessly resurrected once slain. Death was not a permanent solution.
[And indeed, she seems quite genuine. A particular bright gleam has settled in the young woman's staring eyes, and the next note she makes in the survey's margins (still without looking down) seems particularly urgent.]
Are you yourself a god? Or did you come to that place by one of those rifts?
[A god, she says, and for a moment Gabranth finds himself so utterly dumbstruck by the suggestion that he needs a momentary pause to reset. It makes sense, of course, he'll not deny that, but— ] Neither.
I was summoned by the gods in order to serve as executioner in their endless war. I refused... and was unremittingly punished for my insolence.
[He doesn't flinch for that admission; it is a simple statement of fact, nothing more.]
Yet I could not escape the bounds of that realm. Not until this world sought to pull me from it.
So you are native to another plane, and then were pulled there.
[This is spoken half to herself, likely narration of the note she is making on his survey.] I see. Do the gods of your world often exercise such demands on...what shall we call you? Certainly not a follower. On their devotees? Or do you believe you were a particular case?
Pawn would suffice. We had no say. And those who were ill suited to serve would have their memories erased to ensure loyalty.
They cared for strength, not devotion. [Like Devas, like Asuras. Destined to kill one another for as long as time stretches on— and it does stretch on.]
I was the exception only in my rebellion.
[A slight pause, before:]
...but I suspect this knowledge does not aid your research.
Perhaps not, [is the most mild form of agreement, only slight chagrined to be called on her nosiness. Her hand is still taking notes all over the survey.] Unless of course your gods share similarities with the ancient darkspawn like Corypheus and his fellows. There are more than one, you know. We faced off with a second and third in Nevarra City only a little over a year ago.
But as you say. [She laughs, a bright dismissive sound like the way of a hand.] It is likely irrelevant to the exact bounds of this particular survey. So tell me, Ser Gabranth. Do you grow facial hair?
I would doubt it. [Unless they can alter the very fabric of this world itself and its people on a whim, which— he now supposes he has no idea, in fact, whether or not that holds true.
But then of course she moves on, to decidedly more— ] I...
[She nods curtly, unphased by that momentary beat of uncertainty.]
And tell me in the place you were before where you suffered repeated resurrection. Did you age there between your deaths, or was your life held always in suspension?
Perhaps it would save time if I were to show you the end result of an eternity of war.
[She holds position here, even if only middling— and it would hardly be the first time that research takes precedent over all matters of rank and formality. He dislikes it, besides. Answering questions about himself beyond the limits of duty or purpose, or even experience. Memories are an easy thing to cut down into simple words, divorced from tangible aches, provided none run too closely to exposed nerves.
Noah fon Ronsenburg, as he is without the rest of his regalia, is nothing but an exposed nerve.
So his fingertips rise, thumbs catching beneath adamantine plate where they hook in, pulling that helm free without any fuss over buckling or fasteners. He cannot know what she expects to find, of course, but what remains once all barriers are removed is a man with clear, sharp eyes set harsh beneath a perpetually tightened brow— his skin unmarked, his features just as sternly cut as the angle he keeps his mouth tightly drawn to, all framed by a feathered tangle of blond hair that tucks itself in close to his own high collar.]
[Across the little desk, all piled with papers and the detritus of a spirit quite happy to do six things at once even should it mean none of them be accomplished within any reasonable measure of time, her writing hand pauses. The tip of her pen comes up so as not to blot the page. As the helmet is removed, her attention hones to a sharp point--
And so there is his face. For a beat or two, she is flagrant about her study of it: skimming from hairline to chin and back again. Then:]
Not at all. Perhaps you are a very long lived sort of people, Ser. But no, I suppose the implication is that you are not and that your apparent youth ought to be seen as strange. But not to worry! It is a very charming face, so you should not be too concerned at all about your presentation to the world. I doubt anyone at all would suspect.
No, I suppose my question is, have you had cause to shave your face since you arrived? You are very blond of course, so perhaps it has not yet become a question. I ask only as I wonder whether you will remain in your arrested state, or if your passage through the Fade and into Thedas has seen fit to reminded your body of the passage of time.
[Wysteria please, he’s very old and very tired let him rest.]
As of yet, there is no difference. [He suspects none will arrive, given how he feels the same as he had upon first waking in the aftermath of his own death. But it has been so long ago now, would he truly remember anything else? Or is that just his own imagination?]
Should that change, I shall take care to notify you.
[For what must feel like the very first time since they began speaking, Wysteria takes a real moment to pause and deliberate. She reviews the contents of the survey, and the sum of all her notes, and then finally after a very long beat declares:]
No, I suppose that is all. But please do inform me should you find any gray hairs or anything of the like. I am dreadfully curious. And simultaneously very pleased for you, of course! I hope for however long you are here that the time may be spent more pleasantly than endlessly chopping off heads or the like. It imagine even that must have eventually become quite dull.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
The center of the chaos is an especially ill-ordered desk tucked off to the side of the workspace where a young woman is busily dashing off a reply to some inquiry or another. It is strictly not the desk of the Seneschal--that must be the one farther back into the room that looks a little like a desperately ordered life raft adrift in a hurricane of paperwork--, and yet its occupant is indeed surely the only person in the room who might have such a name.
Also, the curl of her flowery handwriting matches that of the survey. Also, she looks up when addressed. So fine guesses all round.]
Oh! [She all but flings away the papers before her, pivoting in her chair to face him. Belatedly, deciding it is likely the more respectable things to do, she springs up to her feet.] You must be the knight! How lovely. Is that my survey you've come to return?
no subject
Even if it is a little Dalmascan for his taste.Instead there’s a rigid nod offered in response to her question— hand extended the moment she rises to her feet, posture lowering to meet her own. Formality, true, but there’s little harm in sparing it for an assistant who clearly holds a role (by his own rough assumption) of some import.]
Your research, what purpose does it serve.
[Understanding is one thing. Noble and respectable and vital even in the eyes of someone like him. But...
Well, he’s seen enough of Draklor to know pure knowledge is hardly ever the beginning and the end of things alike.]
no subject
We--Project Felandaris and Riftwatch and the Research Division, I suppose--are aiming to better understand the phenomena of Rifters and the development of the anchor shard's powers. The questionnaire is meant to assist in tracking certain patterns between Rifters and the places from which they come. Every Rifter answers it.
[You know. More or less. But he doesn't need to know those details!!]
no subject
So you've still a distance to go, then, before you establish a more complete understanding of the process.
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Wysteria retrieves her hand with a prim clearing of her throat.]
Oh yes. There are many theories of course, but it is all quite mysterious. Happily the native population has decided not to categorize us as demons from the Fade--a fairly recent development, it should be noted; when I first arrived, it was still a subject of conversation so I would advise you not raise the subject again in public for it may give people the wrong impression. But here in the Gallows we may discuss whatever theories come to mind.
no subject
But if my answers will provide you with some small amount of insight, then know I satisfy myself with that comfort alone.
[—and to that end, he sets his own folded response down across the desk's edge. A tidy offering. ur welcome.]
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I doubt that very much. You might be surprised, Ser Knight, exactly how much you know. Why, if you are not otherwise engaged at present we might even sit here a moment as I look over your answers so I may ask you a few further questions in respect to them. If any occur to me. They usually do.
no subject
[Rather than taking a seat, however, he simply positions himself in front of the desk, chin raised by degrees in a clear sign of attention— though the dark, high collar of his shirt obscures any potentially visible signs of humanity where the base of his helm ends.]
The full extent of my attention is yours, for as long as you require.
[What else is he to do anyway, really, aside from battle false targets on training grounds for hours on end. Besides, company in possession of even the barest semblance of respect is a remarkably pleasant change when compared to being struck in the head with rocks or spellwork.
Or arrows.
What is wrong with this world.]
no subject
She hums her way along through the questionnaire, and at one point fetches up her pen she she might make a few notes in the margins, but otherwise all her comments and questions are dutifully saved for the end. After some minutes, the papers are lowered into her lap and her attention returns to him.]
You have very legible handwriting, Ser Gabranth.
no subject
[It isn’t so much bragging as it is a prideful statement of fact: he’d mastered that skill with no small amount of effort, and even now— despite an eternity spent trudging ever onward as a wayward soul— he hasn’t yet forgotten it.]
Though perhaps not so deft as your own.
[He’s seen those flourished Qs, after all.]
no subject
[It sounds like the sort of silly deprecating nonsense that any polite young woman might claim, and they know too little of one another to really say otherwise. Were they perhaps more familiar--were he more aware, say, of Miss Poppell's boundless pride--, it might carry off in an entirely different fashion.
But that's neither here nor there for she moves briskly on from the subject.]
Your answer to question two-dash-A. These rift-like distortions. Do you have any direct experience with them, or are they merely things which you have heard stories of? And naturally you must describe to me the nature of your magicks. I shall not write it down if you wish to keep it off the record, but it is important to the nature of the office's research that I have some sense of its scope.
I believe I shall have to introduce you to Mister Dickerson as well. He is quite versed in the matter of intersecting planes and gods.
no subject
If he'd been skeptical as to whether or not she truly was a student of research, the matter is well and truly settled now.]
An eternity of direct experience. The distortions were easily controlled by any stolen from their original, intended lives within their own worlds. Much like Rifters here, in essence.
They could be opened at will to cross the distance between planes, or forced closed on a whim. I found no trouble in doing either throughout countless lifetimes spent within that realm.
no subject
Countless lifetimes? Might you explain that bit just a little?
[Perhaps it is an issue of translation. Cultural differences, you know.
Scratch, scratch, goes the pen's metal nib.]
no subject
[Cultural differences? No. Only the literal truth, it seems.]
Barring...rare, unintended circumstances [There's a point of faintness lingering there, like something bruised, uncomfortable to the touch.] those dwelling within the confines of the gods’ chosen realm would be endlessly resurrected once slain. Death was not a permanent solution.
And I have met it many, many times.
no subject
[And indeed, she seems quite genuine. A particular bright gleam has settled in the young woman's staring eyes, and the next note she makes in the survey's margins (still without looking down) seems particularly urgent.]
Are you yourself a god? Or did you come to that place by one of those rifts?
no subject
I was summoned by the gods in order to serve as executioner in their endless war. I refused... and was unremittingly punished for my insolence.
[He doesn't flinch for that admission; it is a simple statement of fact, nothing more.]
Yet I could not escape the bounds of that realm. Not until this world sought to pull me from it.
no subject
[This is spoken half to herself, likely narration of the note she is making on his survey.] I see. Do the gods of your world often exercise such demands on...what shall we call you? Certainly not a follower. On their devotees? Or do you believe you were a particular case?
no subject
They cared for strength, not devotion. [Like Devas, like Asuras. Destined to kill one another for as long as time stretches on— and it does stretch on.]
I was the exception only in my rebellion.
[A slight pause, before:]
...but I suspect this knowledge does not aid your research.
no subject
But as you say. [She laughs, a bright dismissive sound like the way of a hand.] It is likely irrelevant to the exact bounds of this particular survey. So tell me, Ser Gabranth. Do you grow facial hair?
no subject
But then of course she moves on, to decidedly more— ] I...
[Wysteria???]
Yes.
no subject
And tell me in the place you were before where you suffered repeated resurrection. Did you age there between your deaths, or was your life held always in suspension?
no subject
[She holds position here, even if only middling— and it would hardly be the first time that research takes precedent over all matters of rank and formality. He dislikes it, besides. Answering questions about himself beyond the limits of duty or purpose, or even experience. Memories are an easy thing to cut down into simple words, divorced from tangible aches, provided none run too closely to exposed nerves.
Noah fon Ronsenburg, as he is without the rest of his regalia, is nothing but an exposed nerve.
So his fingertips rise, thumbs catching beneath adamantine plate where they hook in, pulling that helm free without any fuss over buckling or fasteners. He cannot know what she expects to find, of course, but what remains once all barriers are removed is a man with clear, sharp eyes set harsh beneath a perpetually tightened brow— his skin unmarked, his features just as sternly cut as the angle he keeps his mouth tightly drawn to, all framed by a feathered tangle of blond hair that tucks itself in close to his own high collar.]
Does this answer your question, Lady Poppell?
no subject
And so there is his face. For a beat or two, she is flagrant about her study of it: skimming from hairline to chin and back again. Then:]
Not at all. Perhaps you are a very long lived sort of people, Ser. But no, I suppose the implication is that you are not and that your apparent youth ought to be seen as strange. But not to worry! It is a very charming face, so you should not be too concerned at all about your presentation to the world. I doubt anyone at all would suspect.
No, I suppose my question is, have you had cause to shave your face since you arrived? You are very blond of course, so perhaps it has not yet become a question. I ask only as I wonder whether you will remain in your arrested state, or if your passage through the Fade and into Thedas has seen fit to reminded your body of the passage of time.
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As of yet, there is no difference. [He suspects none will arrive, given how he feels the same as he had upon first waking in the aftermath of his own death. But it has been so long ago now, would he truly remember anything else? Or is that just his own imagination?]
Should that change, I shall take care to notify you.
Is there anything else?
no subject
No, I suppose that is all. But please do inform me should you find any gray hairs or anything of the like. I am dreadfully curious. And simultaneously very pleased for you, of course! I hope for however long you are here that the time may be spent more pleasantly than endlessly chopping off heads or the like. It imagine even that must have eventually become quite dull.
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