Richard Dickerson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nonvenomous) wrote2034-10-19 09:51 am
nonvenomous) wrote2034-10-19 09:51 am
Inbox - Fade Rift
Book/crystal/correspondence/action/whatever you desire.
Book/crystal/correspondence/action/whatever you desire.
I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.
Some gods are more invested in the welfare of mortals than others.
[ Wherever he is, there’s a faint echo to his voice. ]
He’s been kind to me.
Some gods are more invested in the welfare of mortals than others.
[ Wherever he is, there’s a faint echo to his voice. ]
He’s been kind to me.
Oh yeah, you definitely seem like you're about to run out and murder Loxley at any second. And I'm just dying to have a little elf baby with Vanadi.
[ Deadpan. Don't be ridiculous. ]
Whatever spirit made the dream just wanted to make a point and didn't care how it hurt us in the process, that's all.
[ Deadpan. Don't be ridiculous. ]
Whatever spirit made the dream just wanted to make a point and didn't care how it hurt us in the process, that's all.
Then he's better than all the gods we have over here. S'why there's no point in tattling. Maker ain't listening anyhow.
[This justification brought to you by poorly remembered religious education.]
If I've to pray for you, it ought to be to Him, innit?
[This justification brought to you by poorly remembered religious education.]
If I've to pray for you, it ought to be to Him, innit?
[ He is -- briefly -- stricken to silence.
The moment you realize you’ve done a better job preaching on a plane where your god doesn’t exist than the one you’re from. Also pray for him?? ]
If you’d like. I confess I tend to eschew formality in that regard. But there is comfort in knowing someone cares for you as you are.
The moment you realize you’ve done a better job preaching on a plane where your god doesn’t exist than the one you’re from. Also pray for him?? ]
If you’d like. I confess I tend to eschew formality in that regard. But there is comfort in knowing someone cares for you as you are.
A random stroke of violence against Loxley is a mischaracterization of what occurred.
[ He would. Another beat of silence, and: ]
Who told you that was what happened?
Who told you that was what happened?
[ Again, there’s a ripple of quiet. Dick opens his mouth. He closes it. He pulls the crystal closer to him at the edge of the bath, as if to lower the volume. ]
It seems disrespectful to ask him for anything under the circumstances.
[ Apart from that one time on the ship -- ]
Which are complicated. [ To clarify. ]
It seems disrespectful to ask him for anything under the circumstances.
[ Apart from that one time on the ship -- ]
Which are complicated. [ To clarify. ]
[ After a substantial delay: ]
You're right. My judgment is clouded.
You're right. My judgment is clouded.
Slipped under his door either very late in the day indeed or perhaps in the very early hours of morning, is a crisp off white envelope. It is unsealed. The note contained therein is neatly trimmed and features ominously lovely handwriting. It reads—
Salutations Mr Dickerson,
Kindly meet with me in the Project Felandaris office this afternoon just prior to the lunch hour so we may discuss how we mean to move forward.
Cordially,
W.A. Poppell
Research Division
Assistant to the Seneschal
Project Felandaris (consulting)
Richard Dickerson has been on the receiving end of such messages before.
Finding it toggles something in him, upon his return. He spends some time at the table with it, considering the wood grain, the foot of his lamp.
He arrives on time, insofar as it’s possible to be precise within the provided parameters. There was no time for him to shave, but he is clean, and neatly dressed in a vest and a coat, and his hair is combed. Mostly. Hair of the dog crawls sharp on his breath, powerful even at a distance.
But he is here, paused at the threshold, where it has only just now occurred to him that he should have stopped and listened for the sound of more than one voice on the other side of it.
Finding it toggles something in him, upon his return. He spends some time at the table with it, considering the wood grain, the foot of his lamp.
He arrives on time, insofar as it’s possible to be precise within the provided parameters. There was no time for him to shave, but he is clean, and neatly dressed in a vest and a coat, and his hair is combed. Mostly. Hair of the dog crawls sharp on his breath, powerful even at a distance.
But he is here, paused at the threshold, where it has only just now occurred to him that he should have stopped and listened for the sound of more than one voice on the other side of it.
There are not multiple voices. At the moment, there is not even one voice. Instead, there is the faint scratching sound of a pen scritch-scritch-scritching its way across a page very near to the ground. Which makes sense, as Wysteria is sitting on the floor with the lowest drawer of one of the office's great cabinets pulled almost all the way out. She is rifling through the files with one hand, and taking notes in a booklet balanced on her knee with the other. A series of documents is scattered about her and for a split second there is an opportunity the obvious opportunity for a last minute escape. She hasn't noticed him yet. He might as of yet withdraw if he cared to--
But presumably, Mister Dickerson was required to steel himself to come this far. Perhaps that same bracing quality is what devours that opportunity now. For as soon as the possibility has arisen, so too does Wysteria's attention.
While still on the floor (under her skirts, her legs are criss-crossed and it would be difficult to rise immediately), she stops writing and twists toward the door.
"Ah, there you are Mister Dickerson! I'm so pleased you could find the time to see me. There is a chair just there. No, there. Behind the door. Feel free to draw it alongside if you prefer an alternative to the rug."
But presumably, Mister Dickerson was required to steel himself to come this far. Perhaps that same bracing quality is what devours that opportunity now. For as soon as the possibility has arisen, so too does Wysteria's attention.
While still on the floor (under her skirts, her legs are criss-crossed and it would be difficult to rise immediately), she stops writing and twists toward the door.
"Ah, there you are Mister Dickerson! I'm so pleased you could find the time to see me. There is a chair just there. No, there. Behind the door. Feel free to draw it alongside if you prefer an alternative to the rug."
In the interest of rapid escape, Richard elects to make use of the chair, wooden feet furrowing into the rug as he pulls it along. It is difficult to rise immediately from a crisscross sit.
So he swings the chair around and sinks to seat himself in it with funeral aplomb.
That he manages all of this without ever seeing her is a feat in itself, a kind of directional blind spot purposefully blotted into the angle of his focus. The human mind is capable of filling gaps in field of view with an educated assumption about what is there, and he prefers to keep that assumption limited to smudgy movement and rifled cabinets, even as his curiosity had prickled at the sound of shifting paper.
Anyway here he is now. Her request has been fulfilled in the form of a grown man with his hands joined in his lap and a frown carved out in sharp relief, looking at some far off space on the floor.
So he swings the chair around and sinks to seat himself in it with funeral aplomb.
That he manages all of this without ever seeing her is a feat in itself, a kind of directional blind spot purposefully blotted into the angle of his focus. The human mind is capable of filling gaps in field of view with an educated assumption about what is there, and he prefers to keep that assumption limited to smudgy movement and rifled cabinets, even as his curiosity had prickled at the sound of shifting paper.
Anyway here he is now. Her request has been fulfilled in the form of a grown man with his hands joined in his lap and a frown carved out in sharp relief, looking at some far off space on the floor.
Rather than untangle herself and rise from the floor, Wysteria simply sets her notes aside, tucks her pen into the intangible space behind her ear, and uses the open drawer to held her pivot properly around on the rug to face him. It's something of a production given the depths of her skirts, and by the time she has come fully about she clearly expects him to have something to say.
So for a moment: a pause. Is it agonizing? Who can say. He does look just slightly miserable there in the chair, and smells distinctly of the sort of dreary party which has only one guest.
Wysteria folds her hands in her lap. She regards him there in the chair.
"Tell me, what was the little cat shaped creature you had with you in the dream?"
So for a moment: a pause. Is it agonizing? Who can say. He does look just slightly miserable there in the chair, and smells distinctly of the sort of dreary party which has only one guest.
Wysteria folds her hands in her lap. She regards him there in the chair.
"Tell me, what was the little cat shaped creature you had with you in the dream?"
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