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Emmrich Volkarin was a man capable of many fixations. The things that kept his attention were varied, ranging from broad topics like Necromancy and sciences, to the the minutia of seemingly innocuous historical events. He'd cared for botany since he was young, and kept himself open to changes in fashion throughout his life. Linguistics, archeology, research; so many of the things were self-guided hobbies that stemmed from natural points of curiosity or the necessity of knowledge at the time. Very rarely did he ever discourage himself from delving further into various skills or topics. It passed the time, didn't it?
These days, his fixations were narrower in nature. Anything that harmonized with their work at the lighthouse was what he focused on. New anomalies in the fade required hours of concentration in ancient texts that he had to learn new languages for. Bellara had asked for help with certain instruments and magical engineering was a hands-on kind of experiment. Culture was important when it came to both understanding their foes and understanding each other, so he spent ample time learning from his peers and what they had to say.
His craving for knowledge and comprehension was hardly ever sated. New lists formed each night before he closed his eyes for as long as he was able. Then as soon as his brain showed the slightest inclination towards wakefulness, it was off to the races. The mental lists grew alongside the physical ones; stacks of notes and journals found their way to his desk and onto the shelves around his lab. There was always lots to be done and plenty of things that deserved his focus.
So why was it that he couldn't seem to steer his current analysis of the hands across the table? The book in front of his face, a collection of Elvhen texts about the history of Arlathan, should have been easy to lose himself in. The alluded politics and anthropology of the subject alone should have garnered at least eighty percent of his attention, leaving the other twenty open for idle conversation or listening while mostly engaged with the person talking. Even a small amount should be checking his mana stores and measuring the affects of his continuous and mass exposure to the fade. All important things that should help to make him useful to his cohorts.
But he had yet to turn a page. He had picked up where he had left off before dinner, but now he couldn't recall a single thing he had learned. All of the letters looked unfamiliar, and normally he prided himself on being able to read several languages fluently. More than once, he'd had to ask Bellara what a certain word was. Frankly, it was disconcerting. At the other end of the table, an intense game of Wicked Grace with increasingly ridiculous stakes had formed in the last half hour. Members of the team who had not been available for dinner were suddenly absorbed in the game, either as participants or spectators.
Rook, one of the ones that had not been present for dinner, had played her way in and thoroughly trounced her teammates until it was Lucanis and Neve left standing. Davrin sat at her side, huffing about losing and casting surreptitious glances at her cards. Emmrich watched the way she held them out as though she had no idea there was any peeking going on. When Lucanis lost the next match after taking Davrin's signals at face value, Rook only had a placating look and a pout to offer them both. The pure manipulation of the situation was a touch harrowing.
Then, Rook was shuffling, the same noise that originally drew his attention. The cards danced through her palms, fingers sliding against them gently as she flipped them this way and that, quick flourishes that drew attention away from whatever slight of hand she was executing. Neve was the only one that seemed to catch the disappearance of what was, no doubt, a significant card. The others were all too busy watching the show, with no skin left in the game, it was easy to sit back and do.
"Nicely done," Neve congratulated her as Rook started dealing cards. "I'd know the snake bite anywhere though. Tarquin?" Must have been a reference to one of the card moves Rook had executed.
Rook let out a quick laugh, "You think I could get Tarquin to play cards with me? He thinks I'm shifty." A few more cards and she was setting the rest atop the pile between them.
"He thinks everyone is shifty." Neve rolled her eyes, surveying the cards in her hand. She sorted through them and quietly laid them face down on the table, threading her hands together as she waited for Rook to organize her own cards. "Elek, then?"
"Nice work detective, you really know your sneaky players." The words dripped with sarcasm and Neve frowned. Both of them sank into concentration as the game began in earnest. Emmrich watched on, the book he held open was long forgotten. Anatomy was a primary study amongst the Mourn Watch. It made for excellent healers, competent necromancers, and vicious warriors. It was an essential foundation for most everything they stood for. One could not appreciate the sanctity of death if one could not understand the very basics of the entire ordeal.
Emmrich himself had plenty of experience with it, from both a scholarly perspective, and a physical one. Many of his hours had been dedicated to studying it and dissecting it. Not to mention the more casual pursuits that had led to the consistent satisfaction of many of his companions. But anatomy meant something different to him lately. It looked different. Thus, this was the thing that occupied the highest percentage of his focus when the conditions were just right.
There were only a few variables that needed to be in place for this particular course of study. The first was of course, the setting. It needed to be something that he could linger in; quiet moments in the lab, dedicated time in the field, and of course, long dinners where his presence was expected but did not hinge on his participation. Anything that allowed him to disappear well within the sight of another, was perfect.
The other requirement was the appearance of a particular set of bones. Though, as much as he adored Manfred, the bones he sought out, often unconsciously, were covered by delicate sinew and velveted skin, muscles that curved to support joints, ligament that connected one piece to another. Tendons, veins, organs; all of it coming together to form somewhat of a mythical being. It was as though a pointillism painting had been created to walk about in the world, made up entirely of the things he knew the most about. And along with the circumstances that influenced personality and character, created a whole being he could not easily divest himself from.
Over the course of several weeks, all of the things that had once occupied his time to such varying degrees, now whittled themselves down to a singular focus. A one Miss Veryl Ingellvar.
It had started as a mere desire to understand a patient. He could watch how she moved from a clinical stand point to better tailor his healing as he did with every person he worked with in such a capacity. It was expected that he would pay attention to the way her hands spun her sword, or the way they fisted tightly around a throat, or when they carded gracefully through her hair as it fell in waves around a face that was covered in the blood of their enemies…
Emmrich shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. His mouth felt dry. He reached for the glass on the table, frowning when it came up empty. Absently he poured more liquid into the glass and took a swig, letting his eyes drift to the other side of the room. It had grown quiet in his preoccupation, all the tension of a final battle between hardened enemies radiating through his companions.
Emmrich analyzed posture for clues as to the outcome. Neve was relaxed, but there was tension in the set of her mouth. Either she wasn't pleased with her cards, or her opponent was not rising to expectations. No, he suspected that Rook had subverted those as soon as the cards were dealt. He switched his attention to the waxen scapegrace that was about to take her turn.
Long, deft fingers, shifted through cards again, drawing focus to her activity. He'd borne witness to the many things those hands were capable of. Though he had personally never come in contact with them, their texture was discernible. Soft and silky tips, callouses made from sheer grit and determination, trimmed nails that were just long enough to break through the thin skin that stretched along a spine as they sunk in…
Emmrich choked through another swallow of whatever liquid was in his glass as lurid imaginings flitted through his mind unbidden. Heat that had buried itself deep into his chest cavity, crawled slowly up his neck as the images started to conjure adjoining sounds. He cast a quick look toward his companions, though no one noticed his break in composure, all too focused on the game that was picking up pace. He relaxed a bit, comforted to know that he was the only privy to the sounds he heard.
His focus flicked back to the hands that he was sure he felt along his limbs now, easing up his sleeves and across his pectoral muscles. His heart rate picked up when the barest hint of the new addition to his object of appreciation, barely appeared as she extended her hand and laid down her card. Rook had recently elected to cement her most obvious outward act of rebellion and marked herself. A small wreath of bay leaves encircled her wrist now, a symbol of a hard won battle, consistency and loyalty- I change but in death.
Emmrich was reminded of the person beyond the body, the soul that inhabited it. The vicious and powerful woman that harbored a depthless gentleness and patience that was hard earned. Suddenly, his desire to appreciate the corporeal form of the person it housed was altogether fathomless and overwhelming. It heated his core and made him feel off kilter, the room tilting in the slightest fashion all while his mind zeroed in on the feeling of the phantom touch making it’s way to more specific points of his own anatomy.
A slap on the table had him jumping in his seat.
"I fold!" Rook yelled. "I quit!" She had quickly risen to her feet, chair toppling to the chair behind her. With a assured alacrity, she was turning and leaping over the chair as she ran to the kitchen doors.
"Oh no you don't!" Neve responded in kind, giving chase and sending lines of ice magic to follow after their leader. "Get back here, you cheat!"
The room erupted in laughter and talking. Harding made her way down to his end of the table, seeking out the pitcher he had been pouring from all night. Emmrich felt fuzzy as the headier sensations receded an he gained some kind of clarity.
"Um, I think Emmrich is gonna need some help getting to his room." Harding called over her shoulder. The others joined her quickly, questions and looks of concern turning his way. "He drank the entire jug of wine."