[ before, when tony normally read, he skipped through the text until he found something he deemed important or at least interesting. newspapers and magazines he flipped through until an article caught his eye. paperwork for his company he barely checked before he signed; pepper and obie vetted most of it. scientific papers received more care, but often they explained way more than what was necessary for him, or concluded what he could have told the author beforehand, so a quick scan by him and jarvis sufficed. tony gave things the time and attention that he felt they were worth, which usually was not much.
it's different in thedas now. for one, he has nothing but time to spare. there's no paperwork to sign, no party to host or attend, no arms race to stay on top off. for another, the night in that cellar proved him wrong. he's not as above everything here as he thought.
so when tony spreads his collection of chosen tomes on the study's central table, he picks a book out, slouches back into the loveseat, and reads it page-by-page, front-to-back. once he finishes it, he sets it aside and begins the next.
there's no real plan or order to the books he reads—just whatever he chances across that fills in the (considerable) gaps in his knowledge. one book covers various countries and cities in thedas and their state of affairs; another reaches back to discuss the history, the metaphorical architect of the world, and how it shaped and built the thedas of today. yet another focuses on tevinter, the empire the venatori strive to resurrect. later he branches out to books on the fade; on the spirits and demons within it in particular, which at one point prompts a thoughtful glance at lucanis.
lucanis is the only reason tony hasn't gone full-hermit mode. he brings tony meals—every breakfast, lunch, and dinner. snacks sometimes, too, and if tony isn't wrapped up in his reading, lucanis even offers insights into his current book's topic, if he has any to share. after so many visits and familiar meals, tony finally considers that the food left out for him in months past might not have always been from the servants.
he lasts for seven of those meals (or is it eight?) before he succumbs to his body's demands for a bath and sleep, when the coffee that lucanis includes with every delivery doesn't cut it. tony wakes up in his bed cold.
after that first crash, he grabs sporadic but more frequent hours of sleep, sometimes in the study, sometimes in his bed. around the day-five mark, lucanis finds him curled up on one of the study's loveseats, a book titled a dissertation on the fade as a physical manifestation fallen to the rug beneath his hand and arm, which hang over the loveseat's side. at the clink of plates, whether the removal of the old or placement of the new, tony stirs and mumbles, "pepper?" before the fog of sleep clears and he opens his eyes. he doesn't elaborate if asked. doesn't even remember saying it.
as the days continue and the stacks of tomes multiply and grow taller, now accumulating on the floor as well, tony adds one of his own: a blank leather-bound book from his room with a quill stuck inside and an ink pot nearby. the first several pages of it are filled with simple weapon schematics, first iterations of his creations at the blacksmith's, plus drawings and measurements of the replacement parts for his broken wristwatch. he wonders if the pieces he crafted are still at his workbench in will's shop, and how long william will wait before he clears it all out. tensing, tony flips the pages till they're blank.
on the untouched parchment of that book, he draws. he engineers. his mind is crammed full of new truths: blights, darkspawn, grey wardens and templars, the chantry and circle of magi, the fade and the veil. spirits and demons. engineering allows him the space to absorb and put some order to everything; get it into the appropriate files in his brain. mostly, it gives him something to solve. it's something he knows.
the first design pertains to the ziplines of the crow's road, an old idea finally seen to fruition: a trolley of wheels, latches, and coil springs to supplement the current handlebars. exploded views of the mechanism depict how the weight of a rider pulls down the bars, which unlatches it, and from there gravity takes hold. then, during the ride, the spring in it stores potential energy like a wind-up toy, and once released, it self-resets to the start. a current pain point, getting the bars back. below that, in a drawing of the bullwheels with the rope as simple lines connecting them, a second pulley system with a counterweight for the uphill paths is attached to the starting brake block. the margins, too, have scribbled calculations for velocity and the pounds of force required for the coil springs in a series of numbers and mathematical symbols, but they're spotty, missing sections that are done entirely in his head. the ending answers are circled.
his eyes lift from the page. a bowl of spiced figs that lucanis brought him as a snack sits on the table. maybe these trolley designs can pay back some of what tony owes him. or begin to, at least.
an idly drawn weapon covers the next page. though with a size and a likeness of a cannon, its parts are blocky and squared, and it sits and swivels like a turret on a base. the barrel flares out like a megaphone, but with no visible exit point; on the face instead is a grooved pattern, inked black, with a bright white circle in the center. tony knows what it is: a sonic weapon. something that thedas is centuries away from. even if he were to draw out the circuit diagram and write out the frequency calculations in detail, he couldn't build it here. not by hand in a forge. it wouldn't work.
he needs to know what's possible. tony is stuck in thedas; he feels that in whatever's left of his soul. if he's going to do anything in this world, whatever that ends up being, he needs to know what he has to work with.
new books join the stacks, ones about materials and resources, botanical and mineral compendiums, even one about the alchemical applications of dragon's blood. lucanis procures a series on metallurgy, too, and tony scours each volume. sometimes he jots down notes in his book like "BLEEDING RUSSULA - HINGE LUBRICANT" and "SELA PETRAE - SALTPETER." the names are written in common, readable by anyone in thedas, but his personal notes he keeps in english. glitterdust, rashvine, and silverite are among the rest. of them, the longest note says, "LYRIUM - Hg?" with the "Hg?" struck through. replacing it: "DIFFERENT. TOXIC, DANGEROUS TO HANDLE. MAGI" with a half-written C to finish. the ink bleeds from the C into the I, the word abandoned.
two and a half weeks have passed since tony's rescue. his arms are still wrapped in bandages, now by his own hand after a bath (he faces the undersides downward when he washes and rewraps them, doesn't want to see—). the fireplace crackles and pops, large enough to throw a low light across the study, and a cooled plate of sauteed pork with a black grape sauce rests on the table. tony has remembered its presence long after lucanis left it, while the accompanying coffee is already depleted. he manages a few bites before he grabs the empty cup for a refill in the kitchen.
the hallway outside the study is pitch black save for the pinpricks of candlelight on the walls. he knows the way, has traveled it often, but his feet slow to a stop. farther down the middle of the hallway glow two dots like eyes, framed to either side by skeletal wings, colored a vibrant purple. all of a sudden, tony remembers: he's seen that silhouette before, but this time, he knows it's no angel. ]
no subject
it's different in thedas now. for one, he has nothing but time to spare. there's no paperwork to sign, no party to host or attend, no arms race to stay on top off. for another, the night in that cellar proved him wrong. he's not as above everything here as he thought.
so when tony spreads his collection of chosen tomes on the study's central table, he picks a book out, slouches back into the loveseat, and reads it page-by-page, front-to-back. once he finishes it, he sets it aside and begins the next.
there's no real plan or order to the books he reads—just whatever he chances across that fills in the (considerable) gaps in his knowledge. one book covers various countries and cities in thedas and their state of affairs; another reaches back to discuss the history, the metaphorical architect of the world, and how it shaped and built the thedas of today. yet another focuses on tevinter, the empire the venatori strive to resurrect. later he branches out to books on the fade; on the spirits and demons within it in particular, which at one point prompts a thoughtful glance at lucanis.
lucanis is the only reason tony hasn't gone full-hermit mode. he brings tony meals—every breakfast, lunch, and dinner. snacks sometimes, too, and if tony isn't wrapped up in his reading, lucanis even offers insights into his current book's topic, if he has any to share. after so many visits and familiar meals, tony finally considers that the food left out for him in months past might not have always been from the servants.
he lasts for seven of those meals (or is it eight?) before he succumbs to his body's demands for a bath and sleep, when the coffee that lucanis includes with every delivery doesn't cut it. tony wakes up in his bed cold.
after that first crash, he grabs sporadic but more frequent hours of sleep, sometimes in the study, sometimes in his bed. around the day-five mark, lucanis finds him curled up on one of the study's loveseats, a book titled a dissertation on the fade as a physical manifestation fallen to the rug beneath his hand and arm, which hang over the loveseat's side. at the clink of plates, whether the removal of the old or placement of the new, tony stirs and mumbles, "pepper?" before the fog of sleep clears and he opens his eyes. he doesn't elaborate if asked. doesn't even remember saying it.
as the days continue and the stacks of tomes multiply and grow taller, now accumulating on the floor as well, tony adds one of his own: a blank leather-bound book from his room with a quill stuck inside and an ink pot nearby. the first several pages of it are filled with simple weapon schematics, first iterations of his creations at the blacksmith's, plus drawings and measurements of the replacement parts for his broken wristwatch. he wonders if the pieces he crafted are still at his workbench in will's shop, and how long william will wait before he clears it all out. tensing, tony flips the pages till they're blank.
on the untouched parchment of that book, he draws. he engineers. his mind is crammed full of new truths: blights, darkspawn, grey wardens and templars, the chantry and circle of magi, the fade and the veil. spirits and demons. engineering allows him the space to absorb and put some order to everything; get it into the appropriate files in his brain. mostly, it gives him something to solve. it's something he knows.
the first design pertains to the ziplines of the crow's road, an old idea finally seen to fruition: a trolley of wheels, latches, and coil springs to supplement the current handlebars. exploded views of the mechanism depict how the weight of a rider pulls down the bars, which unlatches it, and from there gravity takes hold. then, during the ride, the spring in it stores potential energy like a wind-up toy, and once released, it self-resets to the start. a current pain point, getting the bars back. below that, in a drawing of the bullwheels with the rope as simple lines connecting them, a second pulley system with a counterweight for the uphill paths is attached to the starting brake block. the margins, too, have scribbled calculations for velocity and the pounds of force required for the coil springs in a series of numbers and mathematical symbols, but they're spotty, missing sections that are done entirely in his head. the ending answers are circled.
his eyes lift from the page. a bowl of spiced figs that lucanis brought him as a snack sits on the table. maybe these trolley designs can pay back some of what tony owes him. or begin to, at least.
an idly drawn weapon covers the next page. though with a size and a likeness of a cannon, its parts are blocky and squared, and it sits and swivels like a turret on a base. the barrel flares out like a megaphone, but with no visible exit point; on the face instead is a grooved pattern, inked black, with a bright white circle in the center. tony knows what it is: a sonic weapon. something that thedas is centuries away from. even if he were to draw out the circuit diagram and write out the frequency calculations in detail, he couldn't build it here. not by hand in a forge. it wouldn't work.
he needs to know what's possible. tony is stuck in thedas; he feels that in whatever's left of his soul. if he's going to do anything in this world, whatever that ends up being, he needs to know what he has to work with.
new books join the stacks, ones about materials and resources, botanical and mineral compendiums, even one about the alchemical applications of dragon's blood. lucanis procures a series on metallurgy, too, and tony scours each volume. sometimes he jots down notes in his book like "BLEEDING RUSSULA - HINGE LUBRICANT" and "SELA PETRAE - SALTPETER." the names are written in common, readable by anyone in thedas, but his personal notes he keeps in english. glitterdust, rashvine, and silverite are among the rest. of them, the longest note says, "LYRIUM - Hg?" with the "Hg?" struck through. replacing it: "DIFFERENT. TOXIC, DANGEROUS TO HANDLE. MAGI" with a half-written C to finish. the ink bleeds from the C into the I, the word abandoned.
two and a half weeks have passed since tony's rescue. his arms are still wrapped in bandages, now by his own hand after a bath (he faces the undersides downward when he washes and rewraps them, doesn't want to see—). the fireplace crackles and pops, large enough to throw a low light across the study, and a cooled plate of sauteed pork with a black grape sauce rests on the table. tony has remembered its presence long after lucanis left it, while the accompanying coffee is already depleted. he manages a few bites before he grabs the empty cup for a refill in the kitchen.
the hallway outside the study is pitch black save for the pinpricks of candlelight on the walls. he knows the way, has traveled it often, but his feet slow to a stop. farther down the middle of the hallway glow two dots like eyes, framed to either side by skeletal wings, colored a vibrant purple. all of a sudden, tony remembers: he's seen that silhouette before, but this time, he knows it's no angel. ]