Who: Alucard + [open] Where: In and around the Lyceum Institute, also the Pavillion When: Throughout the month What: Local dhampir tries to get more information and access
[Alucard will be the first to admit that in both helping to pack collections to protect them from danger and returning to take advantage of the material within the Institute is a bit of a return to old habits. He has spent centuries minding both Dracula’s extensive holdings of knowledge as well as the material kept by the Belmont family in their centuries old Hold - gifted by Trevor and kept in perpetuity by the dhampir - he should be sick of it. Hell, he took a near century long break from Wallachia in part to get away from doing just that.
Yet he’s circling. Walking the stacks and reading, or sometimes just sitting outside the building looking appropriately decorative for this kind of a space. He’s a good fit, he has the look according to whatever powers that manage the place.
Perhaps it is that last part that has the dhampir returning time and again. Regardless of the reason, he can often be found reading or on occasion, sat at a large table with a large artifact and a few broken pieces.
Basic repairs. Nothing extensive. But it means that if someone is looming over him, the dhampir is inclined to look up, unhappy.]
Could you step to the other side? I need the lighting at a certain angle.
The paper that the original drawings for the west wing happens to be on is showing its age, and its age is old enough to want to fall apart if rolled or touched in certain ways. Alucard doesn’t like it, and he knows the paper isn’t what he’s used to at home. The process is weird and probably industrial, and it means that as he turns the page of this stapled set of plans, he has to be mindful of the fact that little pieces might want to fly off.
He lets out a long, worried sigh.]
I feel like half of the assignment is making sure whatever paper I use isn’t going to fall apart in a few centuries.
[A while ago, Fern set up a meeting to do some magic in an old abandoned art gallery.
Alucard’s been thinking about it for a while now.
The space is wide and open and flexible. No one’s rented it. He needs something productive to do besides helping repair the wing on the institute, and truth be told, the idea of running a gallery feels like it could be an adventure.
There’s work involved though. Mostly math. So he’s sat himself down in a quiet booth with fading and cracked red leather and too much chrome, paper scattered in front of him, cup of middling coffee long since forgotten.
He exhales, looking up only when someone passes him. If it is a familiar face, he brightens.]
Lyceum Institute - General Stacks and Item Repair
Yet he’s circling. Walking the stacks and reading, or sometimes just sitting outside the building looking appropriately decorative for this kind of a space. He’s a good fit, he has the look according to whatever powers that manage the place.
Perhaps it is that last part that has the dhampir returning time and again. Regardless of the reason, he can often be found reading or on occasion, sat at a large table with a large artifact and a few broken pieces.
Basic repairs. Nothing extensive. But it means that if someone is looming over him, the dhampir is inclined to look up, unhappy.]
Could you step to the other side? I need the lighting at a certain angle.
Lyceum Institute - Blueprints
The paper that the original drawings for the west wing happens to be on is showing its age, and its age is old enough to want to fall apart if rolled or touched in certain ways. Alucard doesn’t like it, and he knows the paper isn’t what he’s used to at home. The process is weird and probably industrial, and it means that as he turns the page of this stapled set of plans, he has to be mindful of the fact that little pieces might want to fly off.
He lets out a long, worried sigh.]
I feel like half of the assignment is making sure whatever paper I use isn’t going to fall apart in a few centuries.
The Pavilion - Some quiet diner
Alucard’s been thinking about it for a while now.
The space is wide and open and flexible. No one’s rented it. He needs something productive to do besides helping repair the wing on the institute, and truth be told, the idea of running a gallery feels like it could be an adventure.
There’s work involved though. Mostly math. So he’s sat himself down in a quiet booth with fading and cracked red leather and too much chrome, paper scattered in front of him, cup of middling coffee long since forgotten.
He exhales, looking up only when someone passes him. If it is a familiar face, he brightens.]
--You’re free to sit, I can move the paper.
Wildcard