#witchfuleye

He doesn't know why, but it prompts him to check his cellular contraption. Thumb swipes quickly through the contact list and then pauses on one name. One very, very familiar name of someone he hasn't seen for several months now.

That wretched thing inside of him grows just a little at the revelation. Qifrey swallows. He considers not looking for him, remaining at home, and if they happen to cross paths then, well. He'll cross that bridge when he gets there. But it would be cruel to leave his friend on his lonesome, and he already knows separating himself from him brought him too much solace.

A note is left for the girls before he leaves, informing them that he has to run an errand and will be back later, but there is stew to reheat in the pot if they are hungry. He steps outside, snaps his boots together, and blasts off the ground. The city is unfathomably large, he rarely ever leaves this ward, but he has to... see...

It's a miracle he makes it to Fibonacci before the time on his shoes runs out. There is a slight ache in his thighs that he ignores when he touches down onto concrete and dirt. The contrast between this ward and the one he resides in is almost comical, like stepping between two different worlds.

It isn't hard to find the listed housing. Will his friend even be home? Maybe he's out exploring. There is no telling what he might recall, if anything. Qifrey, one hand curled tightly into his cloak, lifts his other hand to rap his knuckles gently on the front door.

' do you use your hands at all? '

the inquisitor is sitting cross-legged on one of the pillows of olruggio's workshop, leant forward with his interest showing on his face. he has always been curious about the makings of magic. before everything happened his skills were his hands. a great weapon and his ability to hunt and track and fix things.

they're still his hands. once he picked up the orb, the anchor had a connection to the fade he never quite understood, mostly felt. it's not so different from casting spells, yet he always feels an amateur when watching his compatriots use magic in battle. solas and dorian have always had delightful conversations about it that often left him parts confused.

"I do not need anything to cast my magic." Dam-bi cats a small flame to appear at the palm of her hand. A spell that she once feared, she carried it as if it didn't cause her terror.

Still, it doesn't take up as much time as he'd like. So many from his world arrived so close together, and his home is filled with more noise than it has been for months. He's cooking for multiple again. He's doing extra loads of laundry. The washroom fills up with muck and must be scrubbed more frequently now. It's something he didn't quite realize he missed until it happened.

But outside of that... there were no Wises here, there was no Knights Moralis, no Pact, no Brimmed Caps. They were free to do as they pleased. He's only ever known living under the thumb of the Pact and those that enforce it, even living so far out into the countryside.

Olruggio has plans tonight. He had invited Qifrey along, and Qifrey had pleasantly shot the offer down. He had little interest in drinking and dancing among strangers; Olruggio was always the partier of the two, much more people-driven than he lets on. If no one needs me and a tree falls in the path no one even takes, do I even exist? is something he once recalled his friend saying. Qifrey expected Olruggio to go out, to have fun.

What he did not expect was Olruggio to bodily haul him out of the atelier, insisting that it's about time he stop holing himself up here every day. That hidden strength in his shoulders was always surprising, and always reignited an uncomfortable churning in his guts.

It's a club situated just off of the boardwalk in the Golden ward. They're seated at the bar, Olruggio's already a few drinks in, and neither of them have had to spend a single bit of dust. For whatever reason, the men crowding around them are insisting on purchasing their drinks for them. It's loud in here, from the music and people talking. And cramped. He hates cramped. It smells like spirits and something else sickly-sweet. The lights are dim, save for flashing neon strobes that would be like a lance through his skull were he to remove his spectacles.

His face feels warm, but he's not quite as drunk yet. There is a man talking to him but he's not paying much attention to what he's saying, instead laser-focused on the man that's currently speaking to his friend. Who has his hand on Olruggio's arm, is sliding it up his elbow. A vicious, ugly feeling rises up in him. His gaze darts away and he downs the last of his current glass.

"Pardon me," he murmurs to the man speaking to him, then turns to Olruggio. He dares to reach out and tap his shoulder to grab his attention. "Olly."

It's either the alcohol, the jealousy, stupidity, or all three that makes him say, or rather demand: "Dance with me."