Private Reflections

[Cellachán]

“Oh.” Cellachán blinks his surprise upward through the window. However much he had tried to prepare himself for the spectacle, it evidently wasn’t enough. “My goodness.”

He squints almost painfully at the sight, yet, doesn’t take his eyes away while the notepad and pencil are retrieved from his pocket. Only flickers his pupils from point to point, edge to edge, superimposed Escher staircase hellscape to superimposed Escher staircase hellscape.

“That… is a refreshingly pragmatic approach,” the professor comments on their earlier subject, while he flips through to a fresh page. “Seems as though half my students are interested in magitech purely for magitech’s sake — lots of over-designed inventions that would never work in the field, or they try and find problems which fit the technology, rather than design the technology around the problem…” Cel makes the mistake of looking up again, and flinches weakly. “… almost makes you feel as though your brain’s melting out your nose, doesn’t it?”

A low, bassy ‘hmm’ rumbles idly from Cellachán’s throat as he stares, the pencil tap, tap, tap-ing ponderously against a blank page. His eyes narrow, slightly. Then he looks down to the paper, and begins to scribble.

Entire structure appears reflected as virtual image(s)? Since it is thus non-occulting, all reflected vertices/curves/planes are visible through each other.

• PROS: structure’s entire design, internal and external, is theoretically observable.
• CONS: NOISY.

​

The pencil stills its scratching. Instead, Cel rests its top against his chin while he considers his notes thus far, though, possibly more as an excuse not to look at that accursed image in the sky than as anything else. But it isn’t long before he looks over toward the haggard, haunted visage of Walter by his side, and smiles apologetically at the baron.

“I’m afraid that my experience with Blight is rather minimal,” the professor professes. “Is Your Lordship able to tell me a little more of its effects on what we’re seeing here? Or — well, anything else you deem relevant, I suppose?”

 

[Walter Thornley]

"Neglecting to design the tools around the craftsmen is the first folly of an aspiring mind towards arrogance," Walter murmurs in agreement.

It's a direct quote from 'Metamorphosis: inspirations in enchantment nodework', a manuscript that addressed the shape of weave-channeling inscriptions, sequencing inspired by organic patterns, and their relation to the longevity of the enchantments - and the longevity of their interactions with each other, where the work studied several complex mechanisms as an example. Gods help whoever read that for leisure, the only people who'd have that much time on their hands would be the professionals and the infirm. Walter is not a professional by his own admission, and quite sturdy on his feet and focused despite the palor.

He seems to smile faintly at the low ponderous noise. The same way a lot of things together ovewhelm his senses, this sound is pleasant because he can really hear the vocal tone. Never to be mentioned among the myriads of things he notices.

By then, Walter's looked long enough just to ensure there was no immediate panic or otherwise outburst that would draw attention from the faraway workers, and now turns his attention to the mud - ground level where the giant puddle of the square has either partially dried, drained, or failed to conquer the elevation. For a brief moment, it feels like something is moving under his feet, and that notion, though it passes in a split second, brings a touch of nausea. He winces, too, for unrelated reasons, returns his gaze over to the deer-kin to catch the glimpse in orange eyes as they narrow, and the quickhand shuffle-scrapes to life across the paper.

"Mhm. Overcomplicating seems to me a staple of the self-assured age. Mayhaps a way to learn to appreciate understanding itself, in its complex forms? And the excess does not leave some with age as easily as air fills them up to be expelled." It's non-committal chatter, kept so not to interrupt the trail of thought even after the scribbling would have stopped.
Of course it feels like his mind is unravelling into pulled strings, and... And it is one more thing that he neglects to speak more of.

Eyes darken, the prime plane falling across the bodies casting shadows in clean lines without the patternworks of weave accompanying it. Through the observation point, the structure is still horribly present, motionless. There is a knot that ties itself in Walter's stomach, seeing that reflection without his use of Sight. But none shows in his poise or tone.

"You might want to be a little more specific. I have compiled the alchemical and weave analysis on the local flora and some fauna that have been altered, there is a report on the recent plague of sorts that had been eradicated in Arpa after being brought in by the scavengers. There are combined reports for entities that seem related to the local folklore, most of which are now presenting a reality of menace rather than the normal fare for echoes through the Shroud. As for here, this..."

He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again, he is looking at the point where the spire is exactly, over the edge of the arcane lens. He's looked at it every day, he knows where that bloody tower is in relation to the square.

Lips press together tightly, brows knit. It pulls him to say things out loud. Things that are of no help but feel true on a level most truths don't. To speak how he sees.

This is butchery. They carved an inscription using tunnels instead of paint, into the earth itself. They flayed the stabilized root until it unraveled, and forced the Shroud to flow in ways that it should not to feed something below, at the cost of torment not immediately visible to the eye. Like breaking a bone and setting it wrong. On purpose.

His eyes light up, and, save for the squint to focus and the stubborn lines between his brows and in the corners of his mouth falling deeper, Walter himself does not seem to notice. This is worse than that. The flaying, the cutting away, the breaking. He is suddenly aware of the salt in his mouth and his gloved hand's fingers curled into a fist until the folds of the fabric creaked and hurt, strained against the knuckles, until the digits dug into the maimed palm through the protective layer. It's worse than wrong. That butchery, that torture, is familiar, save for being inflicted onto the land rather than a person.

The fracture points grow roots, try to re-establish, stabilize based on the actual organic flow - and then they dig again in those directions, and make the ground conform so the lifesblood of whatever this is - is condensed close to the core, while everything else of the land is drained and starved unless it starts breaking and hungering, too-

And then, it's struggled down at last. There is no spark nor abrupt change to his expression - Walter blinks, inhales a little sharply, blinks again, seemingly apologetic as his mind catches up. He rubs his eyes with his good hand. "Excuse me. What I mean to say is that I have structured observation on its effects well recorded."

The wind blows colder, bringing a whiff of stagnant water and molding earth alongside fresh dampness that promises a drizzle to renew, soon.

A deep inhale, as if waking from a nightmare. Walter braves a smile. The tone shifts back to normal. Conversational in everyday existential horror discussion.
He doesn't know how much Alfvig told his former student about the state of things. Walter had written a lot of letters in the winter two years past, in an attempt to find advice, or any scrap of knowledge related to his condition... It doesn't matter. What matters is partial disclosure down the line.

"I have also made some blueprints, gathered whilst looking at it from below - alas, myself being the only origin point for observation. Watchung it is also not possible from outside Arpa's borders, mind, in part - due to the ward network." He pauses for half a beat, clears his throat.

The professor has left without his coat, comes a belated pbservation as the baron glances over at his eye-level and meets the fabric pattern of the olive vest.
"On a different note, the weather is about to turn - if you intend to linger outdoors, would you mind having the use of my cloak while I send someone for your coat? I would not want you challenging the local climate's worst so soon upon arrival."

The cloak is unfastened, pulled and tossed up and over a forearm in one move that sweeps with practiced grace, and seeks to obfuscate, distract, from the utterly grim sight. He doesn't want to look at it. It takes some will to concentrate on the simple thought that civil folk of the mortal kind are frail, and he isn't, not any more. How it looks no longer matters, he will take any route to have an excuse and dip indoors, where he cannot feel the tectonic weight of the shape in the sky as much.

The promised dinner travels from the servant quarters by scent alone, across the alleyway from the building opposite where the lord would reside besides the scholars and the soon to be laboratory. The cook's domain, anointed in honey, rosemary and lemongrass.

 

[Cellachán]

What was that? Once Walter had progressed on from Arpa’s other troubles to the subject of this defiling tower, trying to describe its very nature… the taut expression, clenching his gloved hand so hard that Cel can see it trembling. Seemingly consumed by some troubled feeling until he can muster it within a breath, to be sighed free.

Cel looks up toward that grim portal one last time. Perhaps after he’s had a chance to read through the baron’s notes, he shall find himself similarly burdened.

“That’s very kind — but, no need. I think I’m finished here for now.” Cellachán dismisses the window with a wave of his hand — pop. He gets the feeling that Walter has seen this cursed sight a few too many times already, and it was good of Baron Thornley to yet stand by for the professor’s first viewing. “I’d like to familiarise myself with Your Lordship’s own discoveries regarding this… structure. At your convenience, of course. Oh—!”

SNAP! exclaim those big fuzzy fingers. Cel rounds upon his abode, where Reggie is still directing porters in and out. A long, rolled-up rug sags gently between the shoulders of two Huntsmen as they navigate the doorway. It’s looking as though the professor will barely recognise his room when he finally gets to pop back in.

“I should fetch my book — there are some things in there which may prove useful should we wish to get a clearer picture of the layout. And, er, and my coat as well.” Suddenly casting an embarrassed glance at Walter, those fingers now scratching awkwardly at his broad neck, “Before I forget it again. Mind if I mention it to your man there — what was his name, sorry?”

 

[Walter Thornley]

What was that? People's eyes don't tend to reflect light in their own color or to glow before falling dark like a quenched lantern. Walter steps on the throat of fear - but feels every joint of his maimed hand beneath the fabric. He must not think about this again until he is out of view. Perhaps, something will be wrought to alleviate the suffering, in time. At least negating what seemed to be a poised strike waiting to happen would be enough. He could handle the rest. He'd find means to handle the rest, unorthodox as always.
"Of course," he obliges, and keeps the cloak over his arm, allowing the bite of damp cold to bring clarity back. The gloved hand unclenches. Fingers move, fan out slightly, as if affirming that they are all in place and in good working order.

There is a brief consideration for the tarnished first impression. Regret blooms and fades, there is no time. He wonders if the professor would ask the questions he had brought to him, not of Arpa, in a couple hours, or ever. Mind already working on evading answers. Partial disclosure about his weaving would be necessary, but besides that, he should say little as possible. His condition burdens his impression on other people enough already, he surmises.
Arpa needs to be helped.
Everything else falls by the wayside.

By the time the folk near Cellachán's new quarters are bringing in parts, accompanied by a carpenter to assemble a spare desk, Walter catches Reginald's attention. He does not call out, but the attendant sets off towards them along the edge of the square.
Walter nods slightly, hums because it feels like making a noise makes it slightly better.
Grey reflections tremble in murky puddles, from the wooden supports touching to the water, and from the drizzle that starts, as if summoned.

"My lord," his Huntsman utters casually, announcing the readiness for orders. He's more at ease after almost two months, having found his footing in the current duty quite admirably, and seeming to enjoy the civic reprieve. That is heartening, somewhat.
"Reginald," the lord addresses the man back, and answers the question posited thus, with just a bit of a delay, "fetch Professor Cellachán's coat, ask someone for Yvain to tend to such needs until our guest settles, I need you on hand." His gaze flicks over to the deer-kin as Reginald departs. The tone of voice returns, lighter, amiable and more paced. "I will bring the binder with my notes. Where shall we reconvene?"

Probably should have made a ruling instead of asking a new arrival. His eyes drift over to the future laboratory building. Enough tables assembled there, he supposes. His current quarters would not accommodate the antlers easily. The professor's will be awash with noises of construction for the next hour or two. It doesn't even occur to Walter to question the premise that they are going to work starting right this moment, the only question is how it could be made to happen.

 

[Cellachán]

“… And a book of mine,” Cel adds before Reginald can sally forth on his coat-fetching quest, “if you’d be so kind. It should still be in my suitcase — green cover, about, oh, yea thick? And entirely blank inside. There’ll be some pounce, ink, a pen, and suchlike bundled up with it. If I could have those as well, please.”

“I will bring the binder with my notes. Where shall we reconvene?”​

Cel follows that Tyrian-blue gaze to where it seems to linger on one of the foregone housing prospects hemming this muddy commons. The building seems roomy enough, from the outside. Distinctly quieter than his own lodgings currently are, and with more room to turn around than that slim townhouse-esque abode bearing the von Bremen device. It looks a bit cold and dark at the moment, but that’s nothing which a hearty fire and a few lamps or candles can’t take the edge off.

“There?” he confirms, nodding in its direction. His hand prepares for another flourish to bring his tine-lights back to life. “But, please take your time, My Lord. I can use the interim to make ready—”

He blinks. Then, slowly, swivels his eyes upward.

“I, er, left my antlers on again, didn’t I…?”

* * *​

Once Cel’s had a few minutes, the big, gloomy interior he’d started with actually turned out a bit cosier than expected. Its generous fireplace is tucked into a nice inglenook, creating a little hutch of growing warmth and dancing amber light. There are already benches set opposite each other against the nook’s walls, nice and close to that hearth, but Cel has also dragged one of the smaller tables over to sit in the middle. Along with his book and writing implements, it holds a couple of candles which, combined with the fledgling fire and what daylight can make it through the windows, is enough to read by. Certainly for the professor, possessed of tapetum lucidum as he is. And who knows; possibly more than well-lit enough for the man with glowing, solanum eyes.

Interesting, thinks Cellachán, crouched before the fireplace. Twigs and slivers of tar-rich birchbark crackle into searing life before him, burning hot and fast against fatter sticks of alder which have already begun to catch. The dense hornbeam logs balanced against one another, though starting to char, will take a little time yet.

He likes building fires. Or more accurately: he likes building fires without the use of magic. There’s a science to it. Ways to optimise, depending on its stages. A delicate balance one must maintain so as to avoid it all collapsing into a smothered, smoking ruin. There are so many things to account for, before one even thinks about adding magic to the mix. Almost any apprentice can wave their hands and cause an inferno to spring up out of nothing — they just need sheer brute force to do so. Wasteful. But if you comprehend the underlying system, if you can orchestrate the fuel to all cascade just so, then even the tiniest spark can give you that same roaring blaze to warm your home.

Or burn your town to ashes…

Interesting fellow, that Lord von Bremen. Oh, the eye colour, yes, that’s a curious deviation from human norms, though Cel sees his fair share of such ‘abnormalities’. Had he actually seen them glow at one point? Triggered by what — the presence of active weaving, perhaps? That implies more than a mere aesthetic quirk of hereditary. Something other than human there, perhaps. Then there’s the verbal compact: no need for overt spellcraft, none of the specialised tools and procedures Cel and other confidential parties have needed to use in the past, when he’s worked on sensitive projects. He’d given his word, and it had just… happened.

That’s interesting to be sure. Though, Walter Thornley has been an interesting figure to Cellachán even before the professor arrived in Arpa. It began after chancing across some of Walter’s essays on theoretical Shroudcraft, written when they were all much younger. His treatise on ‘aspects’ was what first piqued Cel’s curiosity. The fact that this aspiring young artificer-gentleman then seemed to fall off the face of not just the academic earth, but the very real, general sort of earth as well, that only gave the professor more questions. So when he came up in conversation with Aflvig, and the old fellow mentioned that Baron Thornley von Bremen had in fact gotten back in touch as of a couple years ago…

… now, possibly no one is more surprised than Cellachán to find himself here, in Arpa, and not back in the safe, comfy, familiar surrounds of the college and his duties there. But it had all just gotten so — so routine. Each year, like he was pushing the limits of his knowledge less and less. Atrophying.

Satyavati knows why he chose Arpa. Plenty of other places Cel could have gone seeking the unknown. But then, he always did like feeling useful, and nowhere sounded like it had more use for him than this Blight-infested land. Now he’s here, having made the rather agreeable acquaintance of Walter Thornley. Alfvig had spoken rather fondly of the fellow, so the fact he’s pleasant company is no surprise. Only, Alfvig had also mentioned how passionate young Walter had been.

There doesn’t seem to be so much of that left in the man Cel met today.

And that’s interesting, in a sad sort of way. Do those unaccounted-for years hold the cause for that? Not that Cellachán is inclined to press the matter. Just as he’ll refrain from asking if something has happened to Walter’s right arm, given the vague oddness of its form beneath the glove, and how protective His Lordship seems to be of it at times. Who knows, maybe those will-o-wisps in his eyes are part of that story as well. It’s delicate. Walter seems a good-natured sort and quite personable, as much as a noble is permitted to be personable. For a noble he is, and there are protocols to observe in that regard. As a rule of thumb, true familiarity tends to be frowned upon — especially with those of lower social rank. So Cellachán observes. He observes a number of interesting things about Walter Thornley. No doubt he shall observe even more with time.

Whatever Cellachán observes, though, it is the Lord Thornley’s decision alone whether to discuss.

Looks as though a little more birch-bark is called for; that alder might not have gained the momentum it needs after all. Cel tears a few fresh strips and carefully rests them into the flame, as he and his thoughts patiently wait, bathed in a rising, golden glow.

 

[Walter Thornley]

The Huntsman nods, a very shallow tiny dip, to almost each new item, and seems to put them to mind precisely, adjusting the tip of his hat again after he nods. "Shall be done, saer."

"There," Walter nods, and watches Reginald traverse the boards in a balancing jog, quick to procure and return to heel. His mind does the measuring faster than his consciousness catches. A support sliding out from under the board, no misstep now but with a later weight put on it, the footing would collapse into the shallow water, ankle-deep or so. "Much as it grieves me to part from new acquaintanceship so soon, it may be a little while before I am back."

And raises his eyes to the lights. Oh, so he was seeing them, and not Seeing them, or seeing things in the ways his mind would conjure when too exhausted to distinguish between the first two.
His lips part in a silent chuckle. Not enough to show much of teeth.
"Enlightenment rather suits your presence here, good professor."

He needs the herbal remedy. A private space where he will be unheard and unseen. Air is tight in the chest, his throat has an annoying sensation in it, as if something obstructs. It's coming to him again, the pangs of collapse in need of rest he cannot afford.

Walter smiles a calm, lordly smile, not saying farewells because he intends to find his way back yet. Drifts off in a stride, eating up distance but paced as to not impress haste. His passage beshadows the reflections below the board as the cloak billows with the movement and the wind picking up.

* * *

Spoiler: He drinks, once he can breathe.

The disgustingly bitter remedy settles slowly, and as the light-headedness begins to fade, his breast in want for air at normal intervals, Walter reclines in the armchair slightly. His writing implements are laid out in front, the stack of reference books slightly skewed from before this moment. At least the ink is still entirely contained in the well.

Thoughts come clearer, and he has time to collect himself, and plan, while he tugs the bandages on his right hand open with a shudder that has nothing to do with the sight itself and more the lack of progress on its tectonic rate of restoration. Dark fingertips, once skeletal now wrapped with soot-colored skin around the bone, land on the tabletop, and feel the polished surface, smooth and cool. He picks up a quill with that right hand, without looking at the bend of the fingers tilting it to and fro, rotating it with a flourish. The medicine coursing through him slows the heart, addles the fears. The feeling is there, in full. But the sight of it disturbs more than him alone, and so...

His mind turns to the professor's arrival. Arpa. Of all places, the hungry, undead-infested deadlands, and this pinnacle of arcane atrocity crowning it with all them like roof decorations ready to plummet. He came to Arpa for curiosity's sake, this Cellachán. And because he entered by way of Alfvig's recommendation, he would be hosted by himself as well as the Masons. This was still one thing Walter could do for Alfvig - to make sure their shared ward wanted for nothing, and was safe...

... It must have been a long journey, especially the days spent shaking up on the road in the caravan cart, dim dawn into dim dusk, no magic to aid traversal - just in case the Shroud decided to act up. He wonders if the professor is particularly good at holding up the mask, or just that passionately in love with the craft, of which both would be excellent qualities. To throw himself into work with such, slightly frazzled but determined, energy, was - charming.

Yes, perhaps he'd found it charming. Nostalgic. Strange to consider, given... well there's a certain exterior Walter isn't used to. Aside from the Dogs, his one short-lived adoptive brethren, most of whom still looked human enough, in Bremen it was mostly humans, some with elven or dehvani blood, some dehvani, one or two elf exiles, and... Long thought short, he hasn't worked with a beastkin before. He'd find it riveting a prospect, to interact with someone this unfamiliar in everything but the mannerisms of civil society - which have been refreshingly upheld - but... there was also consideration that he could not ask all of the questions he would want to, simply in the name of social propriety.

Was the deerkin diet much different from human one, or from deer one for that matter?
Do the deer lose the horns once a year, or had to buff them down, somehow?..
Does Cellachán know a specific cobbler that had outfitted him, same for the tailor, or is there a sufficient population of deer-kin in Makari to have their proportions well recorded?
Can he move those deer ears directionally?
How did family life look? Surely, his parents would be both deer-kin, what about down the line? Were arranged or encouraged marriages a thing, for the reason of keeping a population? It's not like beast-kin could produce offspring with other species- would it be... to them, would it be considered deviance, in the same way that... if... what does it matter, best not think it.
Can he drink alcohol? Or, rather, does he, should that be offered?
Are those senses as sharp as a deer's?
What is a personal routine like, for a gentleman of antlered walk?

The eyes are brighter than a deer's, of that he is sure. He's seen his fair share of light browns. This one stood out, reminded him of marigolds and pine resin in the sun, without being too saturated as to draw attention by itself. A warm shade, nature-blessed shade that did not belong here, in this desparing place. But he was thankful to see it.

None of that has to do with work. He isn't even sure he was respectful about his curiosity - it is curiosity, after all, and at its spring it needs to be alive before its flow is stymied into social conventions. Cellachán has to be properly considered because Walter does not want to cause discomfort simply staring at a loss for words or stumbling in a manner because he's decided to consider the man as deer when it is not required. It is not lord-like. Besides, Cellachán is a professor of standing that matters.

How he wishes they could have met at Makari, and would not have to make most of a possibly brief collaboration at this dreary, hopeless place.

...oh, how on earth is he going to keep someone like this safe? The lot of common folk is frail. Even former soldiers, especially former soldiers, but common folk - a different world from him now, and status has absolutely nill to do with it.
The common folk frighten easily of things that he would just observe, fisticuffs a step too much when he would not flinch at a limb being torn off before his eyes. They aren't... sturdy, the fight response unpolished, slow, exposing them to danger. They do not have the senses to-

Well it is his job, isn't it? Along with everyone else's job that serves under his command. To keep the folk safe.
Someone has to hold against the blows for someone else to keep the wonder that he no longer has the right to.
Wonder is such a frail, precious thing. To watch someone's curiosity hunger, felt almost like his could, as well.
He couldn't afford to lose that, too.

The sharp scent of medicinal ointment stings the air and numbs the right hand's pains. The bandages are secured at the elbow, and, once Walter pulls a glove over the fingers it almost looks like there is a proper human limb beneath.
His heavy chair with vulpine paws along each corner of the seat, heavy cloak draped over the ivy-carved back, creaks when Walter rises, once again a lord.

He does not take the heavy cloak, however, instead grabbing onto the stack of books, his binder crowning the top along with draft sheets of paper, a box with writing utensils pressed to the side of the arrangement - and makes his way from his private quarters, downstairs, across the dining room being set at leisure pace - towards the point of meeting.

* * *

A while before Walter rejoins, Yvain shows up to where Cellachán elected, and introduces himself shyly - still a scribe, some pockmarks on the face, blond hair hanging in short feathery streaks, sheepish but determined to make himself useful. He makes a noise, as if to protest the professor burdening himself with building a fire, then clears his throat and apologizes. Scribbles with a sharpened bit of charcoal, though, on a draft paper. Studious, though in that specific, narrow field - trying to figure out why the shirt collar is shaped thus. He eyes the shoes, too, trying to keep to a corner unless called upon. Talking isn't his strong suit.

Outside, Walter is briefly detained by a report, as Helge of the Hunt catches up with him mid-step. There is a muffled sound of paper shifting against paper before being pulled open, a momentary pause, a muffled thanks, a quiet set of instructions in regards to team composition and preparations, note on the landscape in the sector and adjustment for the usual tactics when it comes to ride-by crossbowmen.

The door opens, and lord Thornley steps in. Still in that dark grey doublet embroidered meticulously along the collar and around the opening of the sleeves. Still those striking blue shirt sleeves spilling in folds around his arms until they are secured by armguard and a glove - a framing to the books he carries himself, against his chest, alongside a box. He strides towards the nearest table he can set the burden upon, and tries to shed any gravity of presence that he can. No one to frighten into evening their act here.
"Professor," he announces himself, tone falling a touch quieter. "I've brought some references alongside my notes. And here," the binder is taken from the top of the stack, the wooden writing box clacking against the tabletop - and a paper is pulled out with the cleanest blueprint of the leyline he could attempt, "is the better one I could compose, and," another few pages are filtered out, already in a neat stack, "some attempts at calculating counter-architecture, if you'd feel curious. One for a series of seals to stymy the flow of negative energy specifically - not an ideal solution, I know; and this one, based on O'graham Vard's Principle, attempts to add to fracture points in a way that would resume the leyline's organic flow."

He looks up, collected, calm.
"You are free to critique and speak your mind in private discussions." At that, Yvain perks up, ready to slip out the door. "I may be a lord, but you are, as well as come from, an authority on this part of the work."
He's more than certain that the calculations are skewed. Ten years of going by feeling, after all, would do that. So would not remembering half the advanced formulas. The only thing that's there must be the enduring spirit.

Still, Walter straightens up, hand folding along the small of his back, and offers a smile. An easier smile than was braved outside. In fact, he is just a little hazy, and the scent of bitter herbs ghosts over before fading.
"We've time before we are called in late afternoon."

 

[Cellachán]

“Professor.” Cellachán watches over the flame a second longer, then, lifts himself up from his haunches. He rounds slowly, ever mindful of his clearance — especially with Yvain now hanging about. Man’s something of a grey ghost; Cel worries that he’s going to forget he’s even there at some point, only to then find the fellow dangling from his antlers after one careless head movement. Wouldn’t be the first time.

But he greets Walter best he can with a smile. Moseys on over to the papers being pulled forth and offered, nodding along to Baron Thornley’s explanations. Those citrine-shine eyes are already zeroing in on the impossible sketches and reams of calculations, parsing the outline somewhere in the back of his head, priming himself for a proper analysis.

“We’ve time before we are called in late afternoon.”​

Tap, tap, Cel’s forefinger concludes, ringing solid through the paper to tough wood benchtop below. He swings his gaze up toward Walter, who’s somehow managing to appear both at ease and decorously upright all at once. The man does seem to have… unwound a bit since their viewing in the square, which Cel is glad to see: more of that gentleness returned to Walter’s countenance, and less of that tightness, like he’d been fighting back signs of pain. Their break has done him good. As, Cel notes with a twitch of his cervid nose, has whatever concoction he can smell lingering about the man.

That was the other interesting thing, wasn’t it? There’s not an especially strong scent to Walter, besides the smells of what he wears. Cellachán’s senses may not measure up against humans in some regards, namely visual acuity… but the olfactory prowess of his kin is completely unrivalled by comparison.

“Much appreciated,” says the professor, flashing off another pleased smile. “Optimised or not, this will all be useful in bringing me up to speed.”

He shuffles Walter’s documents into his hands and takes them over to that workspace he’s set up in the inglenook.

“I’m putting that coffee on after all, if you’ve changed your mind.” And there it is, that tin from before, with the professor’s other things on the table, while behind him rests a fat black kettle on a stand over the swelling fire. “While I go through these notes, however… could I ask Your Lordship to have a look at something?”

Cel lays the papers down, then, picks up his green hardcover book. Without opening it just yet, he instead brushes a forefinger down the spine. Another one taps thoughtfully, once again, to its hardcover, while sharp dark brows angle even more sharply in recollection.

“Let’s see, was it… display: project oh-two-nine(?)” He cracks open the tome to peer inside — and frowns even harder. “Whoops, no, not that one,” declares Cel, snapping the covers back shut. “Aha… definitely not that one. Talk about non-disclosure agreements — oh, yes! Display: project oh-two-seven. Here… yes, here we go.”

And there, propped open by those big hirsute hands, is a journal filled from the start onward with neat, flowing notes and precisely labelled diagrams (though if fully perused, one will also find messier drafts and shorthand running in reverse from the back page of the book). Cellachán steps over toward the baron while he flips through pages, eyes flitting through their contents, seeking, seeking, seeking.

Pausing long enough to glance up, and look uncertainly between Walter and Yvain. It gives the former a chance to dismiss his young scribe should he feel the conversation’s heading in a direction which warrants it, before Cel begins his rambling academic anecdote in earnest.

“Did some telescopy work for the college observatory,” he goes on to tell Walter. “They wanted a better look at lunar movements, but there was some difficulty getting each of the eight into acceptable focus — our original design team could get the Wayfarer nice and clear, but then the Sovereign would end up all blurry. And vice-versa. It turned into quite an interesting study of optics… er, anyway. What I’d like Your Lordship to look at are our discoveries concerning depth of field.

“For the observatory project, we wanted to maximise the DOF so we’d have as many moons as possible in focus at once. But for these towers, I was thinking we might be able to invert the design.” Cellachán stops; hands holding at a page, gaze doubling in intensity as he confirms his discovery. Then, the professor turns his book around so it’s facing Walter, and offers it forward. “From about this point on should be relevant. To summarise, though: if we have a very, very short depth of field, then we might be able to isolate segments for clear observation by filtering out much of the interference from those parts in front of and behind whichever section we’re looking at. It’ll be slow — we’ll be separating the structure into layers and looking at each one individually, after which we’ll have to figure out some means of piecing it all together. But, if we can make this work… it would give us a complete map of the towers’ design. And that in turn would give us a much clearer idea of how it’s interacting with the leyline, the extent of its influence, and, well, perhaps even more than that.”

 

[Walter Thornley]

♬

Walter moves closer, adjusts the pile of reference material, sets the binder aside. The scent picture drifting over is familiar, perhaps. Page oil to preserve from the moisture, leather binding and glue. Medicine, something distinctly valerian root mixed with three-four other herbs. Incense scent, woody but not burned, faint - clothes must have been kept in the same chest. And then there's sage, and forest soil, and herbs, and they don't belong, faint like a ghost but following Walter specifically - the scent of cleansing herbs, the echo of a place where they tried to fix it. And then, the fainter note of human sweat, slightly citrusy tone of whatever he cleans his teeth with, sharper tone of an ointment under layers of fabric on his right - back to normal. The sage is easy to miss in the mix, it is the absence that is harder to misregister.

The notes reference older books, theories fallen by the wayside in the arcanotech progress, with a frequency that implies fluency. Occasionally, in shorthand, there are written notes like 'chrysanthemum petal form, adjust short to long until ring halo' or 'deeper crimson merge to bog-green'. Those are probably not encoded, but the references are barely familiar.

The drizzle outside turns into one of many rains, tapping on the roofs and into the restored glass of the windows, adding a soft noise to the ambient quiet. Inside, as the golden glow of the cared hearth blooms and the baron lingers at it, tiny specks of water dry in the dark hair interspersed with silver thread.

Head tilts curiously, and words linger on his lips but never leave. 'You need not ask' is a dangerous permission to give, after all. Instead, he offers a closed smile that makes some people deem him aloof.
"I'd love some coffee, if you don't mind me having something brought to sweeten it." The writing box opens with the sliding of wooden panels tilted just so, and the baron procures a quill of carved oak grip and metal tip, unembellished, but well-used. He tucks it behind the ear without much thinking, head bowing to keep it balanced while he takes out the inkwell and the stand, eyes an oval golden medallion inside and closes the box, and pulls a few blank pages free. For a moment, his features are still, and then he refocuses, just as Yvain whispers to outside, passing the lord's want to Reginald. The scribe slips out after a look from the professor entrusted in his care, to remain just beyond sight, ready to take any more demands until the sun is set or until the professor dismisses him. The blond keeps scribbling on his page, a distant, muffled noise now.

He knows the book is not blank. Suppresses the reflex almost, to Look, and let comprehension imprint on his brain directly before it's carried off to memory. Best not tease the medicated mind for as long as possible. Patience is harder to exercise when you've the means, and yet, he waits still, quill once more in his left hand and idly tilting against the fingers.
"Of course."

The table is circled, and the obscurata lingers a couple steps away, to allow Cellachán to procure what needs be. The focus on the academian is tinged by amusement, however. Whoops, indeed. He sometimes forgets how many kinds there are of paper-shuffling, and it is a relief to see someone drifting to that rather than...
That is to say, Walter hasn't seen that kind of focus in a while.
Doesn't flinch to the book snapping shut. Doesn't sit - curiosity is carried best on straightened legs.

Right hand, empty of any draft paper, folds behind his back as he steps close enough to catch glimpses of diagrams and notes, and Walter finds himself briefly rueing that the book is not offered. He would find the structured hand carrying structured thoughts utterly delectable to follow.

He listens quietly, for the most part, outwardly, so far as he's concerned, respectful and composed.
But the deeper his focus lands into the words, and it is drawn into that windwell with a pull that barely registers but makes the ears ring - the less composed his face.
Eyes widen, unfocused unless he is looking at a specific indicated paragraph or image.
Mouth parts slightly, oxygenation to the brain needs be fuller.
All in service of keeping up the conjured images in his mind detailed, precise, not blurry at the edges. Something is moved in Walter's soul when he allows himself to delight in thinking on construction of the lenses, in things that allow to broaden the knowledge and perception, grounded. To consider cross-reference to the lens that Cellachán conjured earlier, of which he'd observed every shred of the weave.

I was thinking we might be able to invert the design.​

By then, the obscurata's dark eyes seem to glimmer, not with magic but with life. He has a thought, it's clear on those invigorated features, keeping tongue still not simply out of politeness but because the thought runs parallel, and he needs to verify, make certain it falls into the structure before it's given voice.

An almost absent-minded, surprised 'oh' escapes the mouth as the book lands in Walter's careful hands, held quill pressed diagonal along the binding and across his fingers. He stills for a moment, caution bordering on fear, as if wary that such a dense enchantment would unravel merely from a stray touch. Once that does not seem to happen, Walter's shoulders, ever so slightly, sag down with relief. He is delicate with how he handles it, fingers curl slightly around the binding, keep the book steady, the quill tip over his thumb and away from it. He doesn't use his other hand as much, but his eyes...
His eyes burn with a quiet, invisible flame, the most scorching of them all, and that hunger is only marginally quelled as he listens further, studies the diagrams. Allows his mind to run with an image of what those calculations would portray building.

He listens to the professor talk, mouth slightly ajar, words pinning down his tongue, thoughts a complex grid in his head, the hearth's golden warmth wafting gently over interspersed with cool spells from the above-floor drafts.
The sensation, that moment, is so complete that is stuns him for a bit.
He looks almost lost, moonstruck - not lacking comprehension, but like he had re-discovered a dimension of space long dismissed, and it sits within his synapses now, and perhaps if he does not move, it will not escape for a moment longer.

Everything is stricken clear in contour. The benches, the table with the references, the looming shape of the tall academian, the corners of his enchanted journal's pages, the color of every ember in the hearth, the density of every ink splash. The outline of every thought. It feels almost like it felt before, when the Shroud still traveled with him, not through him or around him.

The moment passes. Deprivation settles in, like light has left some long forgotten corner of his being - but also, relief.
He does not sink into thoughts of loss, not this time, not when propelled by agency, and imagination.

Walter feels embarrassment settle in, next. He blinks. Closes his mouth. His violet gaze drifts off to the wall, then flickers back to focus on Cellachán, as if seeing him for the first time. Some thought is happening behind those eyes, clearly - catching onto antler tines, the look drifts to the golden-orange eyes, then down to the hands, as the precise movements come to mind.

He turns somewhat sharply, then, to the table, and gently rests the book there, before grabbing a draft paper and putting that quill to work. He does not look up as he scribbles a few precise lines, a much less precise outline of the shape of the structure. Several almond-shaped outlines. Tongue runs against the fang, lingers on the tip to help keep that focus. Then - words come, their measured cadence almost melodic in how neatly they are landed one next to the other.

"The standing issue with the observation angle is that, if we were to use the repeated refraction - as in telescopy - we would lose part of the weave reflected in process, because the seen material is not equivalent to the immaterial. But when a solution would normally mean constructing a physical frame, to be moved via levitation or elevation, to change the angle; or else, repeated refraction pathway solely by weave fed to a decent source - here, the structure of the envisioned lens needs also be able to discern density of what is reflected within the layers themselves, in other words, to distinguish a wall from a door. The former standard solution lacks an elevation to provide us the uppermost angle to observe, as we are far below it; the latter would require a source of energy I would not dare to overuse, which is the surface Shroud of this very leyline."

He grins, lips parting to show teeth as he finally seems to have caught this idea by the throat, and there is something almost dangerously spirited in those features as his excitement lingers directed at Cellachán's face before refocusing back on the paper below, swift as a whiplash. The quill works in the fingers, a strange grip, almost calligraphic, the angle of strokes occasionally guided by tilting fingers as the details of the image are put to life.

"But we can still reconstruct the vertical axis without having to draw from the leyline or to consider shroud rock, by way of drifting it in a... sort of a spiral." He stutters at the thought the Dolores would have already been looking him with a sort of pity, like he was trying to build a second floating island or trying to convince her that you could eat crumbs of the moon because it was actually cheese. But picks up, anyway.

"Think not a window but a lens. A dome, to be precise, its receptors each measuring in a straight line, a vector adjusted to the density of the weave. Shaped as a whitened dandelion crown, the inputs from the tips of those many receptors converging at the core until they are transported down the tether to the observer. If that dome is floated in a circle, we gather data from every angle on a vertical axis. It is then moved up a level, then circled around the structure again, and we could be able to convert our own view from the cross-reference."

This is a point where he feels himself running out of breath, and takes a short one, insufficient one, the thought it more important before it escapes.
"Difference between readings of the same point in space at different angles, combined for the entirety of the space, converted into depth of field to give a layer-by-layer, and then combine into a volumed blueprint. We'd only... need two sets and a tether. Something other weavers could help you stabilize." Out, the last syllable landing in a puff of air before an inhale is forced back inside, diving out of momentary bout of inspiration.

The bizzare structure wrought by his hand on paper looks embarrassing. Not in the quality of lines, but in concept. He doesn't know if it's feasible. If it could work. He might have just come off as a clever animal getting the enrichment it was starved for and overwhelmed by its own excitement to the point of... Maybe coming off a litle feral. Oh. Gods. He hopes he didn't.
"Would... something like that be possible?"

 

[Cellachán]

And there it is — there’s the fire Alfvig had talked about. Maybe a little out of practice, maybe a touch frayed from sleeplessness, pharmaceuticals, and the relentless demands of duty… but Walter lights up, properly ignites for the first time since Cel met the man.

The professor glances over at that kettle hanging over the fire. Perhaps coffee wasn’t the best idea after all…

“Would... something like that be possible?”​

Cellachán pores over the whiplash schematic conjured up by Walter’s hand. A whole sensor array, moved in a helix around and up the tower reflection. It would, indeed, be a very thorough examination, potentially very accurate, too. And quite an incredible amount of data to collate.

Well, at least there seems to be no issue with Baron Thornley’s technical proficiency. The difficulty here may be reining in that fire a bit, if anything.

“Possible? I suppose that depends on how much time Your Lordship thinks we have. And what sorts of resources are available.” Where Walter’s thoughts have flowed out almost in a frenzy, Cel adopts the antithesis: a deliberate calm in his tone and movements, and in the unfazed smile he lets douse the other man for a few placid seconds. “Fortunately, I don’t think we need anything quite so sophisticated as that. Please allow me to explain my reasoning, and you can tell me if I’ve misunderstood something.”

Cel takes his book back in hand, bringing it with him to the nook, where settles in on one of the benches by the fire. He gestures at the bench opposite him across the table, inviting Walter to have a seat.

“Were this any ordinary opaque object then, yes, we would need to circle around it to observe each side. But this reflection shows all of them at once from a single angle, even its internal surfaces — which is also the problem. There’s so much detail jumbled together that to the naked eye, it’s all just noise. But that information is still in there, so if we’re able to look at it piece-by-piece as a series of nearly-two-dimensional layers, we can gradually build up the full picture from any one location. Even that point in the square we used earlier.”

Light flares as the alder sticks fully catch. Cellachán looks down at his side — causing fuzzy tines to thud against the wall — into the long yellow tongues licking against stalwart hornbeam. He rubs his chin, staring once more into that light, with a distant expression turning his features even more placid.

“That said, it won’t be without its issues. Splitting it up into segments means we’re bound to have some cumulative error once we start putting them all together. So you’re right in that we’ll still want multiple viewing angles. At least two, perhaps three, for comparison and correction. The good news, though… is Your Lordship has already done a lot of work on that already.”

The professor faces forward once more. His fingers gently slide the blueprints penned by Walter to table’s centre; tap, tap.

“This may be incomplete, but the silhouette and what details you’ve managed to record here will likely be much more accurate representations of the structure’s true shape — none of that cumulative error to worry about, no? So, once we have our composite image pieced together, we can use known reference points from your plan here to make the final corrections, and thus infer the true dimensions of the remainder.

“Do you see an issue with any of that, My Lord?”

 

[Walter Thornley]

Of course the baron would be proficient. Makes perfect sense, given that he represents the Sovereign not only as a tired managerial force, but also an expert on whatever is going on in the local weave, him and his men considered reliable enough to at least hold the fort until more specialists arrived. And yet, the blueprints are incomplete - it is clear that looking inward, from every angle below, methodically constructing wall by wall in an image until it fit the observation, was taxing for the mind - the errors bleed ink into the lines, fray the quill tip with sprays where too much force is applied. Inconsistencies, in where differing outlines are attempted to be brought into a cohesive picture.

Proficient enough with the accursed part of what is going on, mayhaps. Not with arcane architecture - though he has clearly tried in utmost sincerity, and what that hand wrought onto paper is enough to be cohesive, having made good use of whatever primitive but reliable method available to provide Cellachán with just enough to start and get ideas.

Coffee is the best idea. Secretly, Walter can't wait for the scent - it reminds him of warmer climates. Of the Free Cities, and the few periods of time lit by golden hours, being woken after dusk or to the crying of seagulls... though he expects this particular coffee to be somewhat burned as they'd surely forget about it in a moment, and for a while longer. Gods be merciful if it doesn't overboil. And... Walter gains an impression that there is a rhythm for the deer-kin to create things by hand, to soothe and meditate - and wonders if Yvain would aid or hinder these delicate rites more until his vigil's end.

In an instant, coffee is forgotten as the professor speaks, and those eyes train back on Cellachán without fail.
These are the hours of peace, liberating as they are cruelly few.
A little while, in which he can lay down the mask for a shared project, let the sincere enchantment with the very process of creation read on his face unbridled. A little while, in which there is a medicated, mentally stimulating absence of pain that reads to him like something fonder, akin to limerence for a person he'd just met.
The curiosity, however, is brighter than confused warmth. The reprieve is still cherished dearly, quietly.
He'd like to know this one more, he reckons.

"Fortunately, I don’t think we need anything quite so sophisticated as that."​

And Walter almost grins. Joy sparkles in the eyes and lifts the corners of the mouth before it's stifled. Yet it persists, those sparks merging with the golden echoes of the flames.

It's not at being told no that he finds himself delighted, per se. It's about someone having the capacity to tell him no, politely at that, without quenching his initiative completely. Past that point, no explanation is needed, and yet, he takes it to heart with a slight bow of the head, a muttered 'apologies'. Positively delighted, about his mistakes being judged soberly and out loud. Because he can handle that with much more ease than silence or platitudes. The flame of inspiration, slightly frenzied, dims down, unruly campfire to a hearthflame. Let's make it work. And then, the curiosity lies only with the path forward.

"Not to worry, you've understood precisely," comes the assurance, breath catching less as it deepens. "I wish only for something that works. Partaking of conceptual creation is an honor as it is, and being wrong is inevitable. On the matters of weaving, you may speak your mind without concern, Professor. Besides," the smile becomes ever so slightly lop-sided, even impish, as if it was a bit of a test even though it was most certainly a blunder of minute excitement, "I have just overcomplicated, haven't I?"
He cannot afford it, of course, not in discussing such an important matter - but in this moment, there is a yearning, and that yearning is to embrace being silly. The baron does not cave to it, but only just.

The alder sticks crackle, draw the gaze. A fire built meticulously, by hand, and while the purpose of the frame is to be consumed, it will be most efficient, and lend the beautiful glow for the longest. A beat passes, then two, his hearing catching onto every word while his eyes linger on the pattern of the flames. He sits, and feels the bloom of warmth against his uncovered skin, dark eyes squinting just a little. The eyes are smiling still as he tilts his head to the question, attention swiping broadly over the tines of the antlers and the books.

"No issue at all," it's not dismissive, but rather, almost peaceful. "As for your worry on resources - the exact numbers are related to my family's goodwill with the Crown, however, Her Majesty's edict is clear in that it would unbind my hands in terms of necessary expenses. There is, however, one thing I feel I must disclose, and that is that I'm afraid I cannot help you much further in practice."

Reginald has slipped in, quietly as possible as to not attract attention, with a tray, a spot of milk and honey in separate small jars. He lingers only enough to figure out where to leave them, bows his head to the professor and looks to the lord until he's given quiet leave.

The smile still lingers in the corners of the mouth as Walter's gaze turns to the golden eyes, brows in an apologetic perk rather than a frown. "The rumours, if Professor Alfvig has availed you, are quite true in that I cannot lay down weave anymore. Not effectively, in the traditional sense of practicing sacred geometry and forming Shroud to my will."

He catches himself in half a beat, focus found pointed behind Cellachán's shoulder rather than into the academian's face. It is wrangled into returning.
"Ah, but worry not!" Both his hands come up in a placating gesture where none is required, his left pale and neatly groomed but calloused, his right completely obscured behind a glove. "I can still obtain measurements and help with primary calculations as necessary, and so can two of the scribes, Yvain one of them, if I am indisposed. Not to mention, I can lend my Sight for final assessment - it's quite comprehensive."
The burning dims to embers. The wonder tastes like ash on the tongue. Earthy and bitter.
Still, he braves a smile. The nook is lovely. The inspiration still spreads warmth through his chest. Coffee is a good appetizer before the afternoon soiree.
"What I am meaning to say, if you would let me assist in what spare hours I might have, I would be honored. And if not, then I will understand."

 

[Cellachán]

“That,” Cel nods, “would honestly be a great relief. I can already see that Your Lordship has the aptitude, and I make it standard operating procedure for my projects that all work is verified by at least one additional party before it’s signed off.” A knowing smile with hints of self-deprecation, it flashes across the table like semaphore. “As you say — mistakes are inevitable. I’m not exempt from that, either.”

Cel thinks back to the smile he’s just now seen, too. “I have just overcomplicated, haven’t I?” Not disappointed, not upset, merely the grin of a good-humoured temperament unafraid to face its own foibles… if foible it even be. For it’s a promising draft, were the situation more forgiving. Furthermore, though, there’s worth in its act of conception alone. Cel may be heavily inclined toward pragmatism, but even he recognises that sometimes you just have to test yourself, to explore, and to feed the fires of creativity so they don’t sputter out entirely.

He reaches — not for the papers, but his tin cylinder. Its cap screws off with a high metallic rasp, and the professor begins to unpack its contents: a bag emitting the rich, alluring aroma of roasted coffee beans; metal mesh, plates, and a long thin dowel, all parts of a cafetière; and lastly, a grinder mechanism which fits over the top of the main body.

“And I would also be very grateful to Yvain and your other scribe for their assistance.” Stout fingers tweak the bag, rattling out a healthy measure of beans into the grinder’s mouth. “The fact is, eh… human eyes are much better suited to this work than mine. It will be faster if I can rely on them, and hopefully Your Lordship, to help collect the data.”

A low, mealy noise undulates from Cellachán’s hands. There is no winch on this device; he operates it by twisting the grinder’s round rim clockwise relative to the main body. Light-roasted beans slowly sink from sight as they are fed into the macerating teeth below.

“I was not aware that Your Lordship’s ability to manipulate the Shroud has been so affected.” The grinding noise stops for a few seconds, those hands stilled in place wrapped about the coffee press. “I am sorry.” … And then, he’s steadily twisting away once again. “Ah, but… for what it’s worth: I had hoped to avoid relying on active weaving for our observations. Maintaining even a small conjured window like that for the amount of time required to complete this study — the deleterious effects would certainly be felt.”

Not just for the caster. There could well be an environmental drain, as well. Small, but… if the Shroud in this area is already unstable, it would be best to avoid such a thing, even if Arpa itself has been reinforced. No need to put the wards under more stress than they already are.

The noise of crushing beans fades into a hollow whisper. Cel gives the whole thing a few good taps to shake any stubborn bits of kibble loose, then detaches the grinder and gets started on assembling the plunger mechanism. Meanwhile, the kettle at their side voices its first low grumblings.

“From what you’ve told me, I assume it will be possible to requisition a small amount of armonium and shroudstone.” More bright, sharp metallic noises as components are fitted and screwed together. “Tell me, though — does Arpa have a lens grinder? And if not… where would be a good spot to put one?”

 

[Walter Thornley]

“I am sorry.”​

A slow nod. Well, that's done. And yet, for a little longer he unintentionally stares up at the professor, relieved in not finding what he looks for. There's a specific look the prolific weavers tend to give if they learn, that polite pity mixed with barely held derision. Rare as weavers are, one such as him, all social bindings and misgivings applied, is treated like a crippled animal from behind a civil smile and platitudes. He even suspects the Masons' Guild, a remnant of his geomancer ancestor's connections, being so reticent to involve has naught to do with their fear of the undead and more with being commanded by something such as him. Not all birds are swans, but a wingless swan is an abomination to the bevy.
At least, there was no attempt to glimpse behind the perceived veil.

Just... coffee. The apparatus being carefully assembled that distracts Walter from the gnawing feeling at the pit of his stomach - come and go every time he confesses about the weave. Walter's eyes follow the stout fingers turning the grinder, hands moving against the unlit space behind him in the rest of the room, wrists circled by the cuffs of the sleeves. There is something quiet and important in just being besides the process of creation. So he keeps quiet, too, smiling to himself. Leans forward curiously. Adjusts the tray so it sits with a non-committal invitation for contents to be shared.

"That's most considerate of you," the man speaks, eyes following the apparatus. Looks finicky to maintain, to clean. Fascinating. "What a curious piece to bring along. They'd use a jezve in the south." Hands outline the shape. "Little narrow-mouthed pot, and a long spoon." The south. Free Cities, of course. The seaside air is different there, by some indescribable quality that is perhaps the whole breadth of a different experience with buildings, people, manner of behaving and laws put to use. What comes to mind, however, is that one copper spoon, small with a spiral handle, and dark reddish honey streaming down into the steaming dark liquid. It's all gotten a little blurry with time. "Yours might require a touch more maintenance, it looks like, which means you must be a connoisseur of the process, at least, no?"

A sigh escapes. He's warm. He finds it very agreeable to watch Ceallan make coffee. He feels like a spoiled hound, if only for this moment, and doesn't want to move much with the glow of the hearth at his side and his ass planted. There has to be a consideration made for the Professor having just arrived. Poor man was thrust straight into entertaining his essential superior instead of being allowed to unwind, sit down, maybe unfold a bath and go for a soak. Definitely sleep off the rattle and bounce of the road that was yet only dreaming of being re-paved.
They'd make it proper, once the place is safe. Like Bremen, over these two years.

"As of a couple weeks, we do have a lens grinder, it has arrived with other equipment for the research hall next to my residence. It would be up to you to decide whether it is to your standards," Walter echoes. Pauses for a moment. "For the requisition, an amount and a couple weeks would be needed to procure the materials. And, on a much lesser note, I don't know if it would be of help, but I have a certain ink that I'd be happy to supply from my own inventory, as well. It can be erased with just a little weave channeled into it," a gesture to the sleepless blueprints, which have certainly seen no erasure, "and clings to paper much smoother than a lot of alternative formulas. It has occurred to me that it could perhaps be used for engraving as its weave trace dissipates with no residue in the Shroud or on the object."

Another pause. He just watches the coffee maker be assembled, squints slightly at how the metal glints, follows the noises where it yields resistance and is put in proper order.
"I could collect various measurements before the morrow. Might only have today until- gods know, end of week I hope, but I should manage. Old building blueprints should also come in handy in making those calculations." So Cellachán has at least the numbers to work with, and all the calculations can become a structured background buzz.

He tilts his head to the wall of inglenook. Dark hair poofs around the head like a halo when he slouches and slides just a touch lower in his seat, out of proper and decent position. A momentary stillness, before he'd feel compelled to run full tilt again, no doubt, be it by thought or step or otherwise. Dark eyes follow the professor, linger on his face.
He was meaning to keep the conversationals until dinner, but... the need to fill the silence is still there.
"Professor, if I may drift from the subject for a moment. Before you came here, why were you seeking to meet me?"

 

[Cellachán]

“For the requisition, an amount and a couple weeks would be needed to procure the materials.”​

“That is a bit of a wait, isn’t it. Hmm.” Cel’s chin makes a fuzzy, rasping noise as he strokes its short fur. “We can use my personal supplies in that case, at least to get started. Even if that proves sufficient, would it still be possible to place an order? I’d like to be recompensed for however much material I contribute toward the project.

“We’ll need to come up with the design… calculate desired lens thicknesses to see how much material we’ll need. Pad the numbers a bit to account for wastage. And yes — have a look at these lens grinding facilities while we’re at it.” Cel glances along the table at his green-bound tome and stationary. “That ink sounds useful, as well. I have the animated variety myself for my book, but of course its substrate requires the corresponding enchantments. Yours sounds more practical.”

“It has occurred to me that it could perhaps be used for engraving…” Another ‘hmm’, as Cellachán ponders that one. Depending on how sensitive their equipment ends up being, that could prove very useful indeed. They already have enough noise to deal with up there in the sky; they don’t need to their own damned invention giving off any interfering Shroud signatures on top of all that.

He mentally tucks this titbit away with another nod, and finishes piecing together the cafetière.

“I could collect various measurements before the morrow…”​

Far be it for Cel to naysay a little initiative, so he nods and hums to that, too. They are working to the leyline’s schedule here after all, and such things don’t much care for concepts like ‘standard working hours’. Whatever’s building up below Arpa will keep on going whether or not they do, too.

It’s probably going to be a long night. Just the first of many…

“Professor, if I may drift from the subject for a moment.”​

“Of course,” Cel says, shuffling over a bit toward the kettle.

“Before you came here, why were you seeking to meet me?”​

The professor holds there, staring down at the black pot. That angry roar from within has begun to simmer down, yielding its place to an ascending, shrill scream. He gives it a couple seconds longer. Then, lifts it gently away, brought up over the table. Adjusts his grip as he goes and, quite carefully, pours piping hot water into the coffee press. The scent of stewing grounds immediately strikes their nostrils, as it’s carried on pungent wafts of steam.

Orange eyes flicker up toward Walter, briefly. “I’ve done this enough times, yes,” confirms he. “‘Connoisseur’ is, I feel, debatable. I can at least get it good enough to be drinkable — but the real strength of this design is in keeping the grounds out one’s cup. Some things are worth a little complexity, don’t you feel?”

He prefers a lighter roast, something with a little tartness and flavour over the taste of carbonised regret. Grinding the beans fresh helps some. Plus a little cream and sugar on top? Well, that certainly won’t hurt matters either. Cel lays the kettle aside, and inserts the plunger component into the cylinder. Pushes it down just far enough to submerge all the coffee granules come floating frothy to the top, and allows it to rest.

“Earlier, when Your Lordship took the depth of field concept I presented and immediately started drafting up the possibilities… it was like watching the alder there burst into flames. Full of life and light—” Cel stops abruptly, as an awkward expression skews his features. “—Apologies. Well, I feel like my own passion for the craft has been… fading, lately. Perhaps that’s strange, given how far I’ve come in the field, but…”

Cel finds his eyes roving to one of the windows. Grey skies abound out there, those sunlight bruises since gone. Now it’s more steel out there, cold and hard, setting down the first taste of some wet, howling squall.

“Magic used to feel so full of wonder. Of possibilities. But I realised that the further out I go, the more narrow the branch gets. I have become very, very good at understanding the Shroud by breaking it down into neat, reliable numbers. So good, in fact, I think that’s the only way I can understand it now.”

He turns from that dour grey view back to the cafetière, and shrugs.

“Anyway… I recently began expanding my reading list recently to more tangentially related fields. And I came across some rather interesting, rather old essays concerning the theories of ‘Aspects’, ‘First Things’, and suchlike.” When the copper-shine eyes lift themselves up, they’ve narrowed ever so slightly in a wry sort of amusement. “Sadly, the author only penned a very limited number of works before disappearing from academic discourse. So imagine my surprise when I brought up the name Walter Thornley, the Baron Thornley von Bremen, to Alfvig — and he mentioned that you’d gotten back in touch with him as of a couple years ago.”

A napkin is procured from the tray of goodies so thoughtfully provided by Reginald, and folded over a few times into a thick oblong. Cups, shifted into position. Papers, carefully removed from the splash zone. The coffee is, sadly, perfectly ordinary coffee, and not at all like Walter’s wonderful erasable ink.

“I’m still contending a little with On First Things, but your theory about Aspects made me realise something about the limits of my understanding — about how narrow my view has become. So, naturally, I wished to meet you to discuss your experiences and knowledge on these matters further. Of course, that then led me to the situation here in Arpa. Once I’d looked into it some more, I thought: ‘well, is there really anything else I could be doing that’s more important than helping out with that? And if it also means I get to make Lord Thornley’s acquaintance, that’s two birds with one stone’.”

There. It’s been over three minutes now. Cellachán uses the napkin to insulate his hand as he wraps it around the scalding hot travel-tin-come-cafetière. His other drapes over the piston’s rod where it protrudes high above the lid, and very slowly, begins to push it down to the bottom.

“And that’s it, really. I’m afraid I can’t claim my motives to be purely selfless. I can, however, assure you I have no intention of letting my own personal curiosity take precedence over the efforts to secure Arpa.” Cel directs the tin’s tiny spout toward one of their cups, and begins to pour. “Please say when, My Lord.”

 

[Walter Thornley]

♪ River Jones

"We’ll need to come up with the design… calculate desired lens thicknesses to see how much material we’ll need. Pad the numbers a bit to account for wastage. And yes — have a look at these lens grinding facilities while we’re at it."​

"I could carve it," comes out a little breathy, as if the thought caught against an inhale while the words escaped forward, and then it was too late to back down. Walter takes a bit of a proper inhale, deeper, until his chest fills, and offers again, "I could carve it, I have... uncannily steady hands." There is a small pause, after, to chase the visions of what he'd sewn back up together with those hands on more than one occasion, a decade past. They don't belong. Not now. "Then, the ink is yours." The inkwell, a thing of strawberry diamond-patterned green glass, is pushed along the table by a single movement of fingertips, relinquishing ownership of it.

"Some things are worth a little complexity, don’t you feel?"​

Meeting the copper-sheen gaze, the baron smiles. A smile that doesn't quite belong on his face, so full of light it is, for a fleeting moment, the charming shades at his cheeks and the raised brows framing the expression that reaches upward and sparks in the passing squint of the eyes, crows feet lining the corners deeper. "Yes."

It is going to be a perfectly ordinary coffee. Drinkable, without grounds getting stuck between the teeth. Shared from limited stock, made by hand, with care that has long since become routine to feed the habit. He would not want it any other way.

"… it was like watching the alder there burst into flames. Full of life and light— Apologies."​

There is a brief sharpening to the stare, but it is not apprehension. It's suspicion, almost, at what is in the very least kind words. Attention returns from the mellowed state. People don't say things like that without a reason. Just a little while ago, he has been described by three words of which only one described him and two described how he wished be seen to fit a certain mold. This was different, felt different, but the goal outlined itself soon after. So, there was no reason for the slight flush of heat to the rims of his ears, he could only hope the hair covered them sufficiently.

The corners of the mouth tilting up and a hand gesturing that no apology was necessary - silently so as to not interrupt - Walter tilts forward, straightening after having almost melted into the cool wall.

"Well, I feel like my own passion for the craft has been… fading, lately. Perhaps that’s strange, given how far I’ve come in the field, but…"​

Though Cellachán's eyes are elsewhere, Walter's gaze follows him, and in the shadows of his eyes is compassion. A man facing the limits of his views, a bridge built over the abyss to comprehension in a line to never quite connect. He can commiserate, because, while he'd hit his stupor due to limitations of the youthful mind, the feeling held. And harder still is to walk back that trampoline and try another point of view, is it not?
He says nothing, though, lets the deer-kin find the thoughts.

"So imagine my surprise when I brought up the name Walter Thornley, the Baron Thornley von Bremen, to Alfvig — and he mentioned that you’d gotten back in touch with him as of a couple years ago."​

There might have been a hint of pride at his work being recognized. Or, perhaps, curiosity - what did the professor think, beyond being amused? Instead, there's a sort of humorous embarrassment as the baron covers his face with both his hands and makes a ringing noise that falls from a groan to a low chuckle, and ends in an inhale pulled forcefully into the lungs before he is even considering to process it.

He'd written those on the winter of his return, two years ago, while still bedridden, to reflect on everything experienced ever since he'd become in the south, and started seeing things, and feeling things, from a forcibly shifted angle. He sent those to Alfvig as a precursor to a discussion on his new state of being - that never came, besides the fact that Walter was suffering those episodes, weak after the bone-shatteringly long journey, and sinking into a dark place. These were the few coherent thoughts he'd mustered onto paper before completely succumbing to helplessness, the despair that consumed all of his travelling journals after... after that death had clearly become final, and the burial rites have been honored. Such as they were.

The only way those papers could have ended up on Cellachán's reading list that he can conceive of... Alfvig, you old fox, how dare. There isn't real apprehension there. Whimsy accommodates for scandalous behavior, sometimes, and if the old professor thought them peers, and knew that Walter was too preoccupied to ever match schedules, this all made perfect sense.

"And that’s it, really. I’m afraid I can’t claim my motives to be purely selfless. I can, however, assure you I have no intention of letting my own personal curiosity take precedence over the efforts to secure Arpa."​

"Why not both? I am here, and you are here," Walter's eyes left Cellachán's face, where they'd lingered on the fuzzy bridge and outline of the nose for some reason rather than maintaining eye contact. "Besides, I would be wary if you did claim selflessness. I find that righteousness, for good or ill outcomes, stems from ego and muddles the true reasoning."

The smile closes, a polite, pleasant thing that belongs to the Lord Thornley, to the external shell, with much more familiarity. Walter sits straighter, shoulders broad and posture dignified, hands idling and still at his lap, and watches the grounds pressed beneath the steel in order for their essence to be untethered into consumption. There certainly isn't an allegory there, given the grounds can be returned to the earth meaningfully, just as well.
But he is sentimental about coffee.

"When," he indicates two things at once, hand reaches for the cup and grabs it with a routine elegance that belays much practice, in contrast to their surroundings. The pause lingers but half a beat, a bit of sweet, a bit of cream, joining the mix until his cup's contents are almond-brown rather than the hues of bull eye stone. "...when," he maintains, "we discuss the First Things, you might come to know what I have to show you. The demonstrable things that made my beliefs take to the framework. It will be either wonder or terror of an equally deep proportion, of that I am certain."

There, he is looking into the copper-shine eyes with a distant, but ascertained expression that is locked onto the cervine. Like there is an inevitability he has made peace with and is now measuring resolve as well as the reaction.
"The proper observation may, however, involve dangerous circumstances. For which I will do my best to guarantee safety, of course, but it warrants being said. If you don't feel partial, we might do without, I relish the purely conversational form, and it feels like you would not be too hasty to dismiss it, in your search to reignite the wonder."
Walter brings a cup to his mouth. The warmth has fled him, but not for aloofness. In the pits of those abyssal eyes there is something more, not a change of hue, a through-way almost, like an invisible draft of Shroud being pulled into a source. His shadow wears thinner, stops moving with the flickering of flames, just for a beat where it could be dismissed as trick of light.

He breathes in the mixed aroma, and takes a sip.
"Delightful." Only then his eyes stop observing Cellachán with the sharpness enough to flense soul from the flesh. "This coffee is delightful, professor." The tone is warm, but he looks towards the stonework of the hearth, as if subtly pained. "What do you reckon, why does calling someone shifting to the Beast Moon by their name only work if it's family, or a loved one?"

 

[Cellachán]

“Why…?” a lurch of befuddlement there, in the professor’s voice, in the brief glaze over his eyes. He was not expecting the conversion to take this sharp turn. “… does Your Lordship refer to lycanthropy and similar conditions?”

A little clarity returns to Cellachán’s features, settling back in his seat, the porcelain in his hands clinking its way upward. Too hot to drink just yet, but, fresh enough to savour its aroma alone. His eyes peer through sheer wisps of steam, and flicker; to a point upon the wall beside Baron Thornley’s upright head. Catching that ‘trick of the light’, mayhap. Or, mayhap, recalling the midnight halo when he’d rested his lordly crown against its stones.

“I don’t know.” A weak, contrite smile manifests in the softly rising coils. “I’ve never looked into it. It may well be as much, if not more, a matter of psychology, rather than something rooted in the Shroud.” The professor shakes his be-antlered head very gently. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin trying to find the answer to that.”

Was that Walter’s point? An example of the kinds of things Cel wishes to know about? Things which cannot be so easily broken down into neat, reliable numbers and crunched through mere formulae. Or… was the baron even trying to make a point at all? Perhaps the man was simply stricken with the question out of nowhere, in a flash of whimsy.

“I fear I don’t entirely comprehend what you mean about a ‘proper observation’ and ‘dangerous circumstances’ — I suspect that will only become truly clear to me in the moment itself.” Cel lowers his cup some, and stares into its depths. Black; neither sugar of the rich nor the poor, and no cream. Simply… coffee. “If such a moment presents itself at all. Until then, however, I should be quite content with conversation.”

There’s certainly no call to go deliberately seeking out danger, for either of their sakes — if that was an offer on Walter’s part to do so. Here in Arpa? Danger will likely have enough chances to find them regardless.

Cel’s cup clacks down on the table, so his hands might take up Walter’s gift of erasable ink in its stead. “Thank you,” he offers back. “I’ll test this out tonight, I think; see what we’re working with here…”

Suddenly, their little space here feels like— like snagging antlers, like a moment’s lapsed formalities, like leaving his tine-lights running in the daylight outside. Like the moment has turned awkward, somehow. Is Walter expecting, even hoping for Cel to inquire about the subject further? Meanwhile, the professor is so out of his depth that he doesn’t even know what it is he wants to know. He’s finally made it all the way here, has the chance to speak with Walter about those matters which drive Cel here in the first place, only to flounder around for a simple question and find… nothing.

A mind too used to rigid, unambiguous language, he suspects. The shifting seas of the figurative are yet too strange for him to navigate.

He tries, regardless.

“Why do you ask, My Lord — about the behaviour of those ‘shifting to the Beast Moon’?”