(open + closed in tags)

[flashystyle]

Who: Dorian Pavus (flashystyle) & you!
When: The week post-attack
Where: The Institute & Olympian Streets
Warning(s): Very tired would-be scientist doing his best



I. The Institute

[The Institute's most prestigious scholars working tirelessly to produce a cure sounds very inspiring on paper. One might imagine careful, clean environments with all neatly organized ingredients across their work stations. They may even go on to say that their researchers must have the most capable, cleanest, well-manicured hands for the job.

This is not the case for Dorian, nor his work station. The laboratory may have started clean, but it's long since deteriorated into the space of a man who has been taking advantage of the 8am to 4am hours since all this bombing business began. Unlabeled bottles are littered across the counters with no indicators as to what they are any longer, books are left open on dog eared pages far too close to the former, and stray notes have been made ineligible by stains of Orbiters know what. There's ever a hole eaten through the counter that might indicate if one had drank whatever potion came before what's currently simmering, the wouldn't have just been silenced by a sore throat.

Whether it be depositing findings, coming for updates, or passing through as an employee or visitor, you've come through the open door to this mess of a station. The one responsible for it has a hand through his hair with the other nursing a bottle that he hasn't quite noticed it isn't his water yet. He doesn't look up from the brew when you enter, but he does raise his voice the second you step through the door.]

There must be hundreds of different species out in the wilds. Hundreds! And yet all of them are either poisonous, just aesthetically pleasing, or only serve to make people talk to one another! I don't mind the talk, truly, but what is the point if no one has the solution to this sickness? Words of encouragement that only make the pang of failure hit harder? I'm close to just combining all the sleeping agents and putting the patients down for a long rest, because that might be less excruciating than trying all of these. What do you think?

II. Streets

[For research purposes, Dorian has tasked himself with picking up an overabundance of Liln from a flowershop outside the Market District. With the bomb being an airborne flu, they seemed to have fled to the point of becoming pests in places free of the sick. One might notice they're carefully contained in a glass jar as Dorian makes his way through crowds of citizens gathered to gossip... up until he runs into someone.

That someone might be you, or it might be another unfortunate soul who simply wasn't looking where they were going. Regardless, the jar of the creatures slips through his fingers, shattering into pieces once it hits the pavement. The Liln scatter in fear of being trapped again, consequently latching onto any hosts in the the vicinity of the broken glass. Needless to say, due to the suddenness spread of a brightly colored creature, Olympians around also scatter lest it be another stage of sickness. Those that stick around will find that the Liln harmlessly slipped onto their skin, forming a tattoo potentially revealing of their mood in their panic. They will also find that they're now in the company of a very tired man.]

Those were to be our test subjects for a cure, you know. [He says, lines of a bright red snake curling around his neck.] Best hope those don't make an M.

III. Wildcard

[Dorian will be around the Institute, Sanctuary, and the Red Light District at night looking to hear the information of others who are out capturing/gathering intelligence. If you've an idea for their interaction outside of the prompts, feel free to tag with it! Or hit me up at meganerd for a closed prompt idea.]

Comments

[flashystyle]

[Dorian glances up at the loss of the bottle, but he can't bring himself to mind. He's more relaxed here than he's been in some time. He sits up enough to move the plate of bread and cheeses so he can lay back with his head resting back on one of Byerly's legs.]

Well, yes. I have more causes than just lying about kissing pretty men and avoiding getting murdered, you know. [All this gives him the opportunity to talk with his hands, so he makes gestures indicating ranks as he goes on.] In my homeland, there are strict social classes. There are the common folk, then there are altuses, which is where I stand because of my bloodline. The step above that is the political position of magister, which is what my father is. If I were to take his place, I'd be expectant to dull the sharp tongue of mine lest I want a dagger in my back. And I don't do well muzzled.

[vorrutyer]

Ah. Hm.

[ Familiar sort of structure, that. By toys with Dorian's hair as the fellow talks, mussing and then smoothing down the nicely long strands at his crown. ]

So you're not entitled to a magistership just by dint of your birth? You'll not automatically take over when he dies?

[flashystyle]

[His smile falters, but it isn't gone entirely thanks to his ministrations.]

Ah, no. If he still kept my as his heir, I'd have no choice but to assume his seat on the Magisterium. But he never told me about if that changed, so I ignore it. So, tell me, what are the responsibilities of a town clown?

[vorrutyer]

The duties of a town clown? To make all right-thinking Vor blush, naturally. To serve as a cautionary tale to the youth. Be good, or you'll end up like these stinking fools.

[ His voice is light and wry. ]

You're welcome to join me, if you'd like. Sounds like you have the proper birth-status for it. We could terrorize Nysan society together.

[flashystyle]

A tempting proposal, my dear Byerly. If your clothes are the uniform, though, I'll have to decline.

[He chuckles, reaching to pull the hand from his hair so he can kiss the back of it.]

No, I'll join you in this. Black sheep do have all the fun.

[vorrutyer]

Ah, so they do. Do you have money, though? A proper town clown has at least some, to support those of us who are fantastically disinherited and penniless.

[flashystyle]

Do you think I went and turned plebeian? I do work. I have a good amount left over when I haven't spent them on drinks.

[vorrutyer]

That does sound quite prole-esque to me, yes. A profession? Work? A Vorrutyer would never dirty his hands with something so common.

[ By traces his fingernails lightly over Dorian's temples and scalp, scratching gently. ]

[flashystyle]

Neither would a Pavus, but that doesn't matter much to disgraces, does it?

[He turns his head slightly- just enough to look up at By with an amused raised of brows.]

What are you suggesting, then?

[vorrutyer]

Oh, nothing concrete.

[ A cheerful shrug. ]

After all, what do I know of occupying my time? If you truly were to pick up my habits, you'd become a useless man indeed, and I don't think you'd like to be useless.

[flashystyle]

If I were to truly pick up your habits, I'd have to start saying I'm going to fuck myself.

[He reaches up to trace the line of By's jaw.]

You are right about that, though. If I join you in laying about, it'd have to be part-time.

[vorrutyer]

Well, I'd certainly welcome it. You work far too hard, in my opinion. A fellow ought to spend at least seventy percent of his time sleeping or drinking.

[flashystyle]

Some of us don't have three housemates tolerating all this lazing about. There are bills to pay.

[vorrutyer]

They're well compensated with my wit and charm. Wouldn't you pay well for the right to be around me?

[flashystyle]

Why pay for something I have for free? You're compensated by my wit and charm.

[vorrutyer]

Hm, maybe I should start charging.

[flashystyle]

How unfair. Perhaps I wouldn't pay after all.

[vorrutyer]

Yes you would. I'm worth every cent.

[flashystyle]

Mmm... If I were paying for every cent you're worth, I don't know that I could afford you.

[vorrutyer]

[ By laughs and rewards Dorian with a pleasant little scratch up and down the sides of his neck. ]

So what are your causes, dear Dorian?

[flashystyle]

[He makes a noise of approval that descends into a noncommittal whine, but he doesn't move.]

I don't know, dear Byerly. I know that I'm tired of seeing good people taken advantage of those who have too much power, but being at the bottom of the barrel again makes it hard to do any reform. I've found killing them is much easier- they make so many excuses. So if they do here, I'll do that. Until then, I'll try to provide those who earn it with something more than scraps.

[vorrutyer]

[ He smooths down Dorian's hair. ]

Hm. Though - murder is not exactly something you can get away with when you don't have much authority yourself, you know.

[flashystyle]

You presume much about my capabilities if you think I'd leave behind something more incriminating than ash.

[He raises a hand a safe distance from burning anything, opening his palm with a flame sitting in the center.]

I don't hope to be murdering anyone that would come in peacefully, anyhow.

[vorrutyer]

[ By's head moves back, a brief slight flash of alarm in his eyes. Fire in Dorian's hand. Sure. Of course. ]

Ah. Yes. Certainly.

[ Then, regaining his cool as best he can: ]

So what gave you this hunger for justice?

[flashystyle]

[It takes Dorian a moment to remember that he hadn't actually address magic properly, but when he does, he dispels the flame by putting his hands together and dropping them to his sides.]

I don't know how often people die in your world, but it's far too often in mine. If it's not the disease, it's man. If it's not man, it's the demons they unleash. If it's not the demons, then it's a man who's turned into a demon. [He pauses, coming to frown.] I don't have many friends. I lost some to all of the above. I won't have it again.