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Handle
The first thing Bolaire does when any new person comes through the Archanade is to entreat the utmost caution around their work – they do not do things recklessly or thoughtlessly here, thank you very much, and they do not simply go around touching the artifacts without knowing what they are or where they came from or what they can do.
Thin
The glass blade, conjured from nothing, bends to his will every time it appears from the ether, molding to whatever form he wishes – a long rapier perfect for engaging in combat, a bespoke scalpel with a blade in just the right shape to carefully scrape off any remaining detritus from the field once it’s been deemed harmless enough, a small utility knife to cut the strings off a delivery without bothering to cross the room to pick up the shears, or a heavy butcher's blade to which any number of bones will be no impediment – but no matter what form it takes, it is always the same sharp, gleaming glass, glinting blue along its thin, sharp edge.
Fantasy
He knows, of course he knows, how tenuous an existence it is, this relationship with Hal, that it can be taken away from him at literally any moment, but as he takes a seat at their usual table, deliciously small coffee in hand, and what looks like a delightfully flaky pastry set out opposite him, he allows himself to ignore the blackmail hanging over his head for a few hours, allows himself to pretend that he can simply have this.
Generous
There’s no question at all of immediately offering up the Archanade the very moment Hal laments that his theatrical troupe has finally outgrown their little space in the Rookery - of course he’d be honored for them to put on a show there, they can perform in the museum as long as they’d like, even after the paperwork for the Hallowed Round finally comes through, if Hal wants, because there will always be a place for them there as long as Bolaire’s the curator.
Screaming
There are very, very few sounds in this world, Bolaire has determined, that are quite like the screams of a person who has just woken up alone in the spotlight of a metaphysical stage and finally started to realize what has become of them, and what they no longer have the ability to accomplish of their own free will, and exactly how this will end.
Guess
He’s checked the paints against every test he can think of, every spell, even with the museum’s facilities at his disposal, and all of the things squirreled away in his private office – he’s even tasted them, for pity’s sake – and he’s still no closer to figuring out what’s going on with the damned things; right now it’s almost anyone’s guess and he hates that he doesn’t have any answers for the others, but at this point, what can you do?
Crack
Bolaire’s face is perfect, pristine, and there is nothing for Azune to mend, but the fact that he tries, the fact that he thinks to, the fact that he offers at all – Bolaire thinks it may have cracked something on the inside of him open anyway.
Funny
Bolaire stands in a box to watch the execution of Thjazi Fang, well, this farce of an execution that he’s sure will become even more of one as soon as the man vanishes at the eleventh hour, whisked away in some clever escape as he always does, except – the proclamation is made, and Thjazi’s last words are scared, and the lever is pulled, and the rope goes taut, and there he is, dangling at the end of them and Bolaire can’t help it, can’t prevent the laughter that bubbles at the back of his borrowed throat because, is this- is that it, then?
Engrossed
It’s so easy to get lost in whatever new thing presents itself as a thorny new problem, a tricky little puzzle to solve, and so his latest project is figuring out a way to keep researching all of these fascinating little new topics throughout the night without interruption, hopes this promising little prototype will actually be able to keep turning pages at an appropriate pace without further need for intervention on his part.
Things
The irony of his current profession is not lost on him, that as the Curator of the Lloy Wing of the Archanade Museum, Bolaire is a thing that oversees the collection of other things.
Try
Bolaire pours glasses for Hal and Azune and Murray from the very excellent bottle of wine from his collection and tries not to completely panic, but he’s tried to avoid this conversation for so long, tried to ensure he never had to have it like this, and he hates that he doesn’t know where Thimble is, and tries to keep his hand and voice steady as he begins to answer their questions, and tries not to worry whether this is the moment where everything fractures apart around him.
Attendance
Months and years of hard work are finally pulling together – rehearsals are in full swing and with each passing day the anticipation for what KoTher'ai will be only grows; Bolaire is sure, he is absolutely sure that it will be Hal’s best play yet, and he, for one, cannot wait to see the full glory of it unfold on opening night.
Businesslike
“Well,” Bolaire simply smiles placidly, as the latest fellow he wakes up on begins to scream ineffectually within the confines of his own head, as this thief and murderer and scoundrel and smuggler finally for once in his life faces the consequences of his own actions, “that’s simply what you get for trying to renege on a perfectly good business arrangement and murdering me rather than paying the price we’d already agreed upon for the mask, now isn’t it?”
Myself
Bolaire can be anyone in the world – a wave of his hand is all it would take to transform him into any face he could possibly imagine, but spoiled as he is for choice, he will walk and work openly as himself and as no one else.
Unnatural
Bolaire watches this young man, this singular young man, whose body is dead even though he is conscious to move it as he wills, and whose existence is now so thoroughly unlike anyone else in the entire world, and his equally nonexistent heart pangs with the knowledge that, as different as they are, that there is someone else just as strange as him upon the face of Aramán, and only wishes that they had more than a moment to speak before Occtis is whisked away from Dol-Makjar in the dead of night.