heorte | when i go towards you it is with my whole life.

Nothing at all isn't how Ellis would describe the use of her shard, but he doesn't argue the point. He does catch and squeeze her elbow before lifting the branch away.

"Stand further back," is apparently the only guideline Ellis can settle on. "You don't want to be hit by any stray rock or metal."

He'd pull her back himself, but that feels like an counterproductive urge. Branch over one shoulder, he crosses back to her and then retreats a short distance further. Surely coincidental that he positions himself directly behind her, just in case.

"If I stand further back, it might weaken the concussive force of the thing," she chirps back at him, though as far as rebellion goes it is a very minor demonstration and Wysteria make no concentrated effort to stand her ground on the subject (figuratively or literally). Still working out her hand, she obediently draws a few paces further back from the towering ironwork.

"And don't think that it hasn't occurred to me that no one is ever very concerned when either Mister Stark or Madame Baudin does this trick either," is the last thing she says before she raises her hand and levels the slash of the anchor shard at the gate.

It is, in a way, a little like any magic. It isn't a matter of concentration or construction, but it is absolutely one of intent. Of will. Of wanting something. And what, at its very core, is any magic if not the manifestation of that? And it does—hurt. The jagged piercing sensation of it wrenches up the length of her arm in reverse motion to the great outward crack! of force. But that too is a little like any magician's work. All things have cost.

And besides, there is hardly any reason to linger long in study over the shooting pain in her hand. Not when the blast wrenches the gate free of one of its supports with a great shriek of stone and metal. Back where they are picketed, the horses pull nervously as the gate flops gracelessly backward. It is not a full separation. One side of the structure is still attached to its gate post. But there is enough of a gap in the sagging barrier so as to afford them safe passage around or under it.

The horses, after months of being dragged from one rift to another, have seemingly grown used to the noise of it to the point where they won't attempt to bolt.

It's impressive, Ellis will admit. But it makes him uneasy to watch Wysteria summon great cracks of energy from her palm, just as it makes him uneasy when Tony makes too much use of his own shard. If it weren't so obviously effective, then maybe he'd be able to argue more convincingly that they needn't resort to using them, but—

But the gate is blown sufficiently open. Ellis' desired easy access point is achieved. He flings their makeshift lever towards the brush before crossing to her, reaching for her shard-struck palm to reel her in towards him.

"Well done," said to the same cadence as Are you alright?

The spitting crackle of the magic is already faded by the time Ellis reaches her. The jolting pain which had come in concert with it has dwindled to an easily dismissed ache too, and so by all accounts and measurements she is easily reeled.

Wysteria's smile sprawls wide and quite self satisfied. She retrieves the glove from her pocket.

"As I promised. Very dashing."

"I'm very impressed."

Impressed is close enough to truth, or it's part of the truth. It sounds better than to say, I'm worried. It would dim her smile, and Ellis is so very fond of seeing her smile. Especially this kind of smile, the one she wears when she's pleased with herself, when something's gone right.

His opposite hand closes over the glove in her fingers as he draws her palm up then bends to put a kiss there, just beneath the pulsing gleam of the shard.

"You hardly need me along at all," is said with a smile, Ellis' mouth pressed against her fingers before he straightens enough for her to see his face again.

"That is hardly true," she scoffs, all good tempered prevarication.

Ellis rises, and Wysteria's nominally captured hand insists on rising with him so she might stroke his bearded chin between her thumb and forefinger.

"I can hardly be expected to carry all my own things, Mister Ellis."

Ha ha ha.

Is this what job security looks like in Thedas? Maybe.

But he chuckles anyway. There is a momentary, easy sway of his body in towards her, coaxed by her fingers. When his grip loosens around her opposite hand, it's to draw the spare glove away as he breaks contact.

"Aye, that's true," he agrees. "I do excel at that."

His hand finds her hip, spans her waist.

"Remind me what you would like to carry through that gate with us?"

For a moment, her consideration of him up close and with his chin held in her hand—the flickering of the acidic green light glinting in the bristle of his facial hair—is very sly indeed. Then Wysteria turns her hand to pinch his cheek.

"The thaumoscope for one," she informs him. "And I've my little traveling desk in the same case with it for if we need to stop to take any records. I can carry one or the other, but surely not both. Not if I wish to be a reliable ally to you against whatever dreadful things we might find waiting inside for us. Now, kiss my cheek and tell me how clever I am and then we ought to be on our way. We have wasted quite enough daylight as it is."

Smiling, she lifts her face and expectantly bears her cheek to his attentions.

The instruction is very clear. Ellis considers her before his hands raise, cup her face, soft leather glove still held in one hand.

There is work to be done. If they lose the light, Ellis will certainly regret it. But still—

First, a soft kiss to her cheek as request. Then, a second, stolen kiss set at the corner of her mouth, and then, before objection can be raised, a third, brief kiss to her lips.

"You are very clever," he tells her, straightening just far enough to look at her. His thumbs stroke her cheeks. "And are you certain you don't want to bring the set of bottles for collecting samples as well?"

"You are a scoundrel and an opportunist," she tells him first from between the tender shape of his palms, so instant that she speaks over half the question. Nevermind that she is clearly pleased or how her hand has fallen from his cheek to his broad shoulder, fingertips all gentle at the lay of Ellis' collar.

"But yes, now that you mention them, the bottles may as well come along too. I packed only the slim set, so don't bother to look for the other. And I will carry the pack of glowstones and the lantern."

Plucking her face from out of his hands, she steals back her glove and gives his side a teasing poke for good measure. Off with you.

And so Ellis collects the requested items from the cart. By now, he has mastered the art of balancing several bulky pieces of cargo at once, so it's no hardship to gather what's needed. (It helps that over time straps and slings have been added, without any ceremony, for the ease of transportation.) With the horses content to graze along the end of their tether and the gate broken open, there's nothing left for them to begin their work.

The courtyard is beautiful, even ruined and covered in the famed moss. If the letter hadn't begged otherwise, Ellis might have tried to remove some to get a better sense of the crumbling statues lining the walkway up to the rotted wood doors leading into the structure.

"You can push the right one in," Ellis directs Wysteria, hands momentarily occupied with baggage. "By the looks of it, it would have rotted to nothing within a few months whether or not we came along."

There's no sign of trouble just yet, but the courtyard is filled with sunlight and welcoming enough. Surely the problem either manifests in the dark, or is mostly contained behind these doors.

They aren't exactly a stealthy duo, the soles of boots and the various clink and clack of tools either in hand or swaying from belts rather like a series of chimes announcing their presence. But it's hardly as if it would make such a different to the spirits or demons or whatever is most likely to be lurking in the great old place. They might be as quiet as two Chantry mice and still draw attention from that lot.

As promised, the right hand door comes open under her hand with little more than a just judicious shoves to clear past the detritus of growing things on the other side. Beyond it lies the great entrance of the older castle: a broad space with two matching staircases, the upper levels of the room flanked by gallery balconies. Sunlight dapples the hall, burnishing the overgrowth in yellows and golds through the empty sockets of windows from which glass or shutters have long been absent.

Wysteria promptly sets down the bulkiest items of her kit and from the satchel at her hip produces a little booklet.

"Let us set the majority of our things here. We should aim to cover as much ground as possible while we still have light to map the castle by. We can make a second sweep to take up any samples or retrieve any notable objects, but I think it silly to trundle about with the whole world in our pockets to begin with. Agreed?"

She has already produced her pen and from the booklet has unfolded an illogically large piece of paper onto which to begin jotting down notes regarding the castle's layout.

By all accounts (and seven pages of the letter Tony had grumbled over) this had once been a magnificent castle. After having deposited his cargo in order of sturdiest to most fragile beneath a row of empty windows, Ellis gives himself a moment to take in the room itself.

And after that, a moment to eye the nooks and crannies, the ivy-draped corners that could hide trouble from view.

But there's nothing immediately visible that needs attention, so he's free to cross back to Wysteria.

"Aye, the holes in the ceiling are a benefit," he points out, mostly because it seems that they aren't in danger of the roof collapsing in on them. "We'd best start at the upper levels and work down."

In the course of the proposition, Ellis had freed his mace from where it had been secured at his belt. Taking care not to disturb her note-taking, he sets his free hand at the small of her back as he asks, "Left or right side?"

The stairs bend and meet at the top landing, stonework mirroring the curving ascent. Ellis asks Wysteria this the way he'd have asked her which table she'd like at a tavern or which type of flower she'd like for the garden, just to hear her opinion rather than out of concern for the choice itself.

Standing there in the center of that great entry hall, Wysteria seems to give the question real consideration. It is as if there is some sort of right answer, and if she studies the lay of the staircases and the balconies about them and the various empty doorways which lead off from them that the correct answer will reasonably come along.

Though she pauses only for a few seconds, and is perfectly decisive when she declares, "The left, I think."

She jots a note down, then folds then paper back into the booklet. The booklet is pocketed; the pen is...put wherever the pen usually goes; and with a brief touch of her hand to his elbow, she and her remaining collection of gear is moving for the left hand staircase.

"We're just as likely to find birds," Ellis says, following along after. "Or some other type of animal as we are to find spirits."

Maybe this is wishful thinking. It would be pleasant to have an outing where the only thing they were dealing with were some overly rowdy squirrels. Or maybe he is just apprehensive about the use of her shard, still wary of it in spite of all his reassurances otherwise.

But still, they make it to the top landing without incident. Even overgrown with moss and greenery, the finery of the building is still apparent. Ellis scans the open hallways running along the balcony rails, and then what's left of the doors and the rooms beyond them.

"Light's better this way," he suggests, tipping his head to the right. He is refraining from the sense that if there's trouble, it's probably waiting for them in the lower levels. A trio of mice scurry aside as Ellis' boot disturbs a spider-webbed crate, vanishing into the thicket of ivy. "Watch your step here."

"So it is better," she chirps back, something light and affirming and quite habitual. There is a rhythm to this. They explore dangerous places and Ellis points out little hazards and Wysteria making humming noises or assent or whatever little indication that Yes, of course she is listening is both appropriate and seems to soothe him, and they generally go about their business.

This is, technically speaking, not even the first allegedly haunted house into which they've explored.

With that in mind, Wysteria makes her way along as directly as he will allow, saying, "I suspect you're right that we're unlikely to find anything remarkable up here. I don't sense anything particularly interesting, in any case."

"Do you sense anything uninteresting?" Ellis asks from a few paces ahead of her, nudging open doors as they go.

The rooms are abandoned, as predicted. Even a glance tells Ellis that looters have come through already; dust and overgrowth have come in thick, but furniture has been overturned and jewelry boxes broken across the floor. The noise of their passing disturbs birds, as predicted, and a cranky scatter of crows flap from one of the rooms, while something unseen scratches away from the pair of them.

"Here," is an undertone, Ellis reaching back for her hand so as not to interrupt her answer.

Drawing her along with him as they reach the set of once-ornate, heavy doors at the far end of the hall opposite the landing. Pushed open, it reveals what might once have been an opulent drawing room. The stained glass of the windows is in pieces, some intact, some shattered, a few instruments, shelves lining the walls broken in places with books fallen across the floor. A few bottles are left, perhaps recently, several empty but several more intact. Ellis' hand remains in hers as he looks back to her, taking in her expression.

Ha ha, very funny Mister Ellis.

When it comes to the room at the end of the corridor however, her expression—wrinkles. There is the faintest trace of disappointment lurking at the corner of her mouth and in the set of her brow. Her hand, evidently comfortable in is domesticated state, makes no immediate move to withdraw.

She does however scoff with evidence disappointment at the contents of the room.

"If this is all some nonsense like a few local children being naughty in the middle of the night, I will be very cross."

"I'll let you have at them, if we come across a few naughty children."

Because is there anything more fearsome than Wysteria when annoyed?

But he does lift her hand to his mouth, kisses her knuckles before releasing his grip on her to inspect the room and leaving Wysteria to her own devices. He crouches to look at the books and scattered pages, most ruined by wet or gnawed on by animals, before crossing to the window and turning to put his fingers on the mossy pianoforte. The keys of the pianoforte alternately stick, then plunk hollowly, then—

Not sticking keys, but keys pinned down. Ellis frowns, glancing up and over to Wysteria as he taps the keys with more force.

For her part, Wysteria had begun to take an inventory of the much battered and overgrown shelves lining the wall. What books have yet to be scattered across the floor have been weathered to obscurity, all by rotted by the passage of time into the very shelves upon which they sit. With her hands safely gloved, she begins to pull a few down from the shelves when—

Plunk. A depressed key on the pianoforte sticks.

And Wysteria, with a mangy book in each hand, pauses in her assessment of the wall of shelves.

"That's odd."

The key sticks. The one beside it sticks. Ellis glances up at her, tips his head.

"I'm going to try to get it open. Will you come here, try to counterbalance it?"

Time and damp and moss have all warped the wood. It might have been faster to just take his mace to the thing, but with Wysteria in the room and unlikely to leave it, caution wins out.

When she's set her hands on the frame, Ellis makes his first attempt to wrench the top free. The entire instrument shudders at the impact, and a discordant clang of impacted strings echoes from deep inside.

Naturally she agrees, and having set both the rotted books aside she naturally braces against the jerk of the thing as he gives it a solid tug.

"I suppose it's possible the inside is simply rotted away," she remarks, heels all dug in to the mossy carpet underfoot. "Although come to think of it, I'm not sure I really know how a pianoforte's hammers are set. I suppose the key must strike it upward onto the string so—perhaps the hammers are simply stuck in the upward position, and so there is nothing to press the key back down again. Oh!" This last bit she cries out.

"I felt something give. I believe you nearly have it, Mister Ellis."

Between them, Ellis manages to give one last determined push upward and with a splintering squeal of wood and nail, the top of the pianoforte snaps in two. It's a start, enough to see down into the instrument, so Ellis leaves off the effort rather than round the pianoforte to attack the otherside.

"It might be nothing," he agrees, turning his palms up briefly to examine the stinging scrape left behind before shaking both hands out and crossing to stand beside her. "But it might be something hidden."

Considering the bottles, the lack of obvious threat, maybe this is all nothing more than a place unsavory travelers had been using as a base and safehouse.

"Bring the glow light up, a little," Ellis directs, and rather than let Wysteria put her hand down into the bowels of the instrument, Ellis reaches in himself. It might be an irritated creature, something prone to bite, or—

His efforts bring his hand into contact with soft, worn leather wrapped tight around something. It's wedged low enough that Ellis has to strain to get hold of it, leaning further into the mouth of the pianoforte.

Another sort of person might, upon witnessing Ellis jam his entire arm and shoulder into the dark depths of a mysterious instrument in an allegedly haunted castle, hiss something about caution. Wysteria however merely steps a little closer and obediently holds the glowlight as directed. And she does, it must be noted, lean a little over the cracked edge of the pianofortes exterior as if she is considering following the reach of his arm with that of her own—

"Anything?"

"Something," he answers, abandoning efforts to squint down in the direction of his hand to shift position slightly in hopes of getting a better grasp on the edge of the item. "It'll come loose if I can—"

Was the answer: pull too hard and overbalance in the opposite direction when the item abruptly comes free of the strings with a discordant clang?

Because that's what happens almost immediately after the second, grasping yank on the edge of the leather pouch.

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i just saw how many comments are in this post

we're very industrious

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squeaks this tag in before bed

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