[ Mortalitasi has, as anticipated, raised a few eyebrows around the Gallows, but one such eyebrow had come with a complaint Ilias hadn't expected -- about having enough stinking dead things already, thanks. It takes a little doing to connect any of that to Averesch and Hostile Powers but after Casimir he'd needed a project like some need a stiff drink.
So eventually, there's a grey-robed figure darkening the project office doorstep. Squinting. Averesch. The name had rung familiar in a vague sort of way, but the face -- a bit more filled out, a bit better beard, but--
Ah. In the crypts. There's a wince, but he rolls it into an amiable smile. ] Kostos, wasn't it?
Ilias Fabria. [ In case Kostos's memory isn't any better. ] Forgive the intrusion. I heard someone was keeping a few of the dead around.
[ The office Ilias is looking in on is fairly neat, but the desk, specifically, is verging on a disaster—the sort of disaster that comes from being overwhelmed but also unwilling to let go of anything, to return a book that likely isn't useful to the library in case it might be, to set something aside for later instead of keeping it at hand.
Things aren't as bad as they look; Kostos has yet to fuck up anything that he clearly should not have fucked up, and he still makes time to get into trouble. But they do look bad, and he only looks up for a second. ]
One.
[ One dead human. Several dead animals, now, but Ilias will take his new undead Disney sidekick army from Kostos' own cold, dead hands. ]
I know who you are.
[ Knows who he is. Knew he was here. Did not seek him out on purpose. ]
The more things change, it seems. [ The more Kostos remains a petty shit -- is how anyone else might conclude that sentence. Ilias says it like Nice to see you.
(Is this what he'd liked about Kostos once? That he wasn't charming? Or just that he was something different?)
Undeterred, ]
The deceased-- may I ask what you hope to accomplish with it here?
[ He's guessing endear yourself to the locals isn't it. ]
[ Kostos does something with his eyebrows, at that first part, but the overall effect of whatever expression he’s forming (an eye roll minus actual rolling eyes, because he learned early that the best response to don’t roll your eyes at me was an honest I didn’t, for the record) is hidden by his downturned head. He keeps scratching out notes. ]
A personal assistant.
[ Obviously.
—but he will actually answer, in a moment, when he gets bored with the silent, expressionless fit he’s having about Ilias being here, probably to take the only part of his work he actually feels equipped for and leave him with all of these Maker-damned intelligence reports. ]
Your order gave us permission to take her. My cousin might have it in writing.
I am not here to challenge their decisions. [ A beat. ] Or yours.
[ In case that's unclear. Ilias moves to sit, uninvited or no, his body language too unobtrusive to quite demand attention, but still -- present, patient, not going anywhere. ]
I am here to assist the Inquisition, and my skill set is specific. [ Limited, he knows, by some measures. He hasn't been fighting any wars, not even for mages; he's been caring for the dead in ways Kirkwall has no use for at all. It will require some adaptation. ] If there is something I can help with while I catch up on the rest, I would like to.
[ Kostos makes it through the remainder of the sentence he's writing in silence, teeth grit. But nothing kills an internal temper tantrum quite as effectively as having the source of it nearly directly addressed. That doesn't mean he's much happier, when he does set down his pen and look at Ilias again, but it shifts toward general irritation over his existence, his whole calm and collected aura, his title, and the fact that he is absolutely, indisputably going to be helpful.
How dare he.
Kostos glares at him in silence for a few more seconds for good measure. But, ]
We have been trying to determine what caused them to attack in the Grand Necropolis. We have narrowed it down to a problem with the body rather than—
[ A stumble, a pause. ]
The body is affecting whatever spirit I bind to it.
(Apparently: yes. Ilias is in no way oblivious to the irritation currently turned his direction, but he shows no sign of yielding to it either, nor breaking that maddening calm. He doesn't need to be liked to do his job -- if anything, now that they're moving forward, he seems to find it quietly interesting how much Kostos doesn't.) ]
And the spirit is soothed when separated from it? [ A confirmation; even with incomplete training, Kostos is a medium, and he assumes capable at what he does. Ilias gives a considering 'hm.' ]
From what I recall of the incident, my colleagues' investigation was more focused on, ah, casting blame-- [ on the Inquisition; he looks a touch chagrined, ] than identifying any specific cause. If the issue is the body, perhaps I might take a closer look at that for-- irregularities.
[ Kostos angles his head and contemplates Ilias like he's an unfamiliar rune. An unfamiliar rune that Kostos resents, mainly for stupid reasons—and suspects, for a fairly good one. Tampering is right. ]
With an observer, [ he decides, and starts rearranging papers that he could have rearranged at any point in the last four days but did not, for the sake of having something to do with his hands. ] I'll make arrangements.
[ Hm. Not a restriction he loves, but— ] Acceptable.
[ As if his agreement matters at all in this situation. Nonetheless, Kostos has it. Ilias mouth presses at the corners a beat like he might add something — as if there were words that might convince Kostos to trust him, or an offhand comment about the source of the other mage's frustration that might at least shift the conversation. But actions speak louder, as they say. With an incline of the head, he pushes off to depart. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
slides in here on stocking feet, lmk if this is ok!!
So eventually, there's a grey-robed figure darkening the project office doorstep. Squinting. Averesch. The name had rung familiar in a vague sort of way, but the face -- a bit more filled out, a bit better beard, but--
Ah. In the crypts. There's a wince, but he rolls it into an amiable smile. ] Kostos, wasn't it?
Ilias Fabria. [ In case Kostos's memory isn't any better. ] Forgive the intrusion. I heard someone was keeping a few of the dead around.
no subject
Things aren't as bad as they look; Kostos has yet to fuck up anything that he clearly should not have fucked up, and he still makes time to get into trouble. But they do look bad, and he only looks up for a second. ]
One.
[ One dead human. Several dead animals, now, but Ilias will take his new undead Disney sidekick army from Kostos' own cold, dead hands. ]
I know who you are.
[ Knows who he is. Knew he was here. Did not seek him out on purpose. ]
no subject
The more things change, it seems. [ The more Kostos remains a petty shit -- is how anyone else might conclude that sentence. Ilias says it like Nice to see you.
(Is this what he'd liked about Kostos once? That he wasn't charming? Or just that he was something different?)
Undeterred, ]
The deceased-- may I ask what you hope to accomplish with it here?
[ He's guessing endear yourself to the locals isn't it. ]
no subject
A personal assistant.
[ Obviously.
—but he will actually answer, in a moment, when he gets bored with the silent, expressionless fit he’s having about Ilias being here, probably to take the only part of his work he actually feels equipped for and leave him with all of these Maker-damned intelligence reports. ]
Your order gave us permission to take her. My cousin might have it in writing.
no subject
[ In case that's unclear. Ilias moves to sit, uninvited or no, his body language too unobtrusive to quite demand attention, but still -- present, patient, not going anywhere. ]
I am here to assist the Inquisition, and my skill set is specific. [ Limited, he knows, by some measures. He hasn't been fighting any wars, not even for mages; he's been caring for the dead in ways Kirkwall has no use for at all. It will require some adaptation. ] If there is something I can help with while I catch up on the rest, I would like to.
no subject
How dare he.
Kostos glares at him in silence for a few more seconds for good measure. But, ]
We have been trying to determine what caused them to attack in the Grand Necropolis. We have narrowed it down to a problem with the body rather than—
[ A stumble, a pause. ]
The body is affecting whatever spirit I bind to it.
no subject
(Apparently: yes. Ilias is in no way oblivious to the irritation currently turned his direction, but he shows no sign of yielding to it either, nor breaking that maddening calm. He doesn't need to be liked to do his job -- if anything, now that they're moving forward, he seems to find it quietly interesting how much Kostos doesn't.) ]
And the spirit is soothed when separated from it? [ A confirmation; even with incomplete training, Kostos is a medium, and he assumes capable at what he does. Ilias gives a considering 'hm.' ]
From what I recall of the incident, my colleagues' investigation was more focused on, ah, casting blame-- [ on the Inquisition; he looks a touch chagrined, ] than identifying any specific cause. If the issue is the body, perhaps I might take a closer look at that for-- irregularities.
[ Or signs of tampering. ]
no subject
With an observer, [ he decides, and starts rearranging papers that he could have rearranged at any point in the last four days but did not, for the sake of having something to do with his hands. ] I'll make arrangements.
no subject
[ As if his agreement matters at all in this situation. Nonetheless, Kostos has it. Ilias mouth presses at the corners a beat like he might add something — as if there were words that might convince Kostos to trust him, or an offhand comment about the source of the other mage's frustration that might at least shift the conversation. But actions speak louder, as they say. With an incline of the head, he pushes off to depart. ]
My thanks, Enchanter.
no subject
Speaker.
[ He's looking back down at his work before Ilias is out the door, mostly as a matter of principle. ]