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.
It’s not the type of question he expected her to lead with -- a moment’s pause taken to process.
“She is my familiar -- a celestial spirit bound to my service through arcane magic.”
He answers in the style of a debrief, clear and to the point under scrutiny. Clear and to the point and delivered to the rug. Even when he’d paused, he’d looked inward to review his own read rather than risk a glance Wysteriawards.
“Her name is Thot.”
“She is my familiar -- a celestial spirit bound to my service through arcane magic.”
He answers in the style of a debrief, clear and to the point under scrutiny. Clear and to the point and delivered to the rug. Even when he’d paused, he’d looked inward to review his own read rather than risk a glance Wysteriawards.
“Her name is Thot.”
She doesn't technically shift closer, but the sentiment of wiggling a little nearer like an especially intrested terrier is palpable.
"Explain her to me," is not a question though neither is it a demand. Does she have the leverage for the latter? Potentially. And she may yet use it, but for the time being she relies on—
"Is she bound to a single form? Is she a gift from your patron god also? How did she come to you? What magicks may she do on her own? In what way is she bound?"
—a small avalanche of questions.
"Explain her to me," is not a question though neither is it a demand. Does she have the leverage for the latter? Potentially. And she may yet use it, but for the time being she relies on—
"Is she bound to a single form? Is she a gift from your patron god also? How did she come to you? What magicks may she do on her own? In what way is she bound?"
—a small avalanche of questions.
It’s a strange ask and a stranger task, reaching back to the few years he spent in study decades ago. Rarely discussed.
The conspiracy charge looming over them both doesn’t help clear his focus, steady pressure as stifling to clarity as it is a driving force behind recall. Dumb disconnect sits odd in the bones of his face -- he starts to answer and stops himself.
"Divine magic is vested into mortals by the gods," he says, slowly. "Arcane magic is most often achieved by manipulation of aether through study."
This, distilled down, sounds right to his ears, jutted with shame and stuffed with whiskey cotton as they are.
"I studied, at night, with books stolen from the university library. I can summon her in many forms, but the binding itself is difficult to explain. I can feel -- " he reaches first for his temple and then more honestly for his vest, "her absence." It's necessary for him to clarify in the next beat: "It's considered unimpressive, for someone my age."
The conspiracy charge looming over them both doesn’t help clear his focus, steady pressure as stifling to clarity as it is a driving force behind recall. Dumb disconnect sits odd in the bones of his face -- he starts to answer and stops himself.
"Divine magic is vested into mortals by the gods," he says, slowly. "Arcane magic is most often achieved by manipulation of aether through study."
This, distilled down, sounds right to his ears, jutted with shame and stuffed with whiskey cotton as they are.
"I studied, at night, with books stolen from the university library. I can summon her in many forms, but the binding itself is difficult to explain. I can feel -- " he reaches first for his temple and then more honestly for his vest, "her absence." It's necessary for him to clarify in the next beat: "It's considered unimpressive, for someone my age."
Edited 2021-02-28 23:14 (UTC)
There are elements of this which are familiar to her ear--ones she is expecting, and ones she is not if the rise and subsequent narrowing of the enthusiasm stark in her face is any indication. Regardless, she listens like a particularly well attuned little beast: all bright eyes and tack sharp focus. Despite the papers about her and a natural impulse for note taking, her hands are still there in her lap.
"Oh, how happy," cannot possibly be the response he expects of her for indeed a moment later that keen attentiveness flowers into something that is most extraordinarily pleased and uniquely mercenary.
"You have no idea how relieved I am to hear it, Mister Dickerson. I had been under the impression--well, it hardly matters. Regardless of how you were or weren't taut, you are no doubt rated far above me. Still, there is a sort of cheering quality which common ground has for the soul. Library theft," she lowers her voice to explain, as if the provosts of some distance world might even now be listening for a confession to long suspected crimes and somehow hear her through time, space, and the Fade. "Is, I find, an under-rated means to an education. Particularly for people so old as ourselves."
But she waves all these facts aside, dismissive of whatever temporary satisfaction she might clean from them. No, what she is most interested in is--
"How does the summoning work? Or how would it work, I mean. Were you not here in Thedas."
"Oh, how happy," cannot possibly be the response he expects of her for indeed a moment later that keen attentiveness flowers into something that is most extraordinarily pleased and uniquely mercenary.
"You have no idea how relieved I am to hear it, Mister Dickerson. I had been under the impression--well, it hardly matters. Regardless of how you were or weren't taut, you are no doubt rated far above me. Still, there is a sort of cheering quality which common ground has for the soul. Library theft," she lowers her voice to explain, as if the provosts of some distance world might even now be listening for a confession to long suspected crimes and somehow hear her through time, space, and the Fade. "Is, I find, an under-rated means to an education. Particularly for people so old as ourselves."
But she waves all these facts aside, dismissive of whatever temporary satisfaction she might clean from them. No, what she is most interested in is--
"How does the summoning work? Or how would it work, I mean. Were you not here in Thedas."
He misses great swaths of subtlety through the sheer force of his unwillingness to look at her. Only once the words how happy have ben jettisoned into the mix does he hazard to check in as if at knife point, half-expecting to see her face blossoming open into the toothy flay of some nightmare serpent’s jaws --
Her voice fade’s back in through the dread in his pulse.
She’s just enthusiastic. He looks away again.
Library theft is an under-rated means to an education, particularly for people so old -- his brow pinches -- Wysteria Poppell can’t possibly be in her 30s. Is this a compliment?
“Yes,” he finds himself agreeing in his utter befuddlement, delay spun two-fold over confusion and the liquor cobwebbed over all systems.
“Are you aware of my role in your attempted assassination?”
Her voice fade’s back in through the dread in his pulse.
She’s just enthusiastic. He looks away again.
Library theft is an under-rated means to an education, particularly for people so old -- his brow pinches -- Wysteria Poppell can’t possibly be in her 30s. Is this a compliment?
“Yes,” he finds himself agreeing in his utter befuddlement, delay spun two-fold over confusion and the liquor cobwebbed over all systems.
“Are you aware of my role in your attempted assassination?”
Edited 2021-03-01 05:39 (UTC)
There, at the bright edges of her open face, flickers just the barest trace of irritation. It's a minor thing—a briefly furrowed brow, a slight downward quirk at the corner of her mouth. And then the line of her chin rises, as do her eyebrows. The effect is some kind of lofty self satisfaction, an adopted sense of moral superiority which doesn't suit her.
"I've been informed. Mister Holden told me as much as he knew. Something about you acting as a double agent and trading information of our whereabouts and movements to the Ambassador, I believe. Though really, Mister Dickerson, I hardly see how that has any bearing on this conversation. Unless of course you mean to make it a point upon which our association must stick."
"I've been informed. Mister Holden told me as much as he knew. Something about you acting as a double agent and trading information of our whereabouts and movements to the Ambassador, I believe. Though really, Mister Dickerson, I hardly see how that has any bearing on this conversation. Unless of course you mean to make it a point upon which our association must stick."
“...It does strike me as important from a perspective of trust.”
But there are question marks afloat now, easing off some of the otherwise leaden drag to his addressing it at all. Worry has crept into the furrow of his brow all the same. Doubt.
“If not strictly relevant to familiar summoning.”
But there are question marks afloat now, easing off some of the otherwise leaden drag to his addressing it at all. Worry has crept into the furrow of his brow all the same. Doubt.
“If not strictly relevant to familiar summoning.”
Here, the line of her chin falls by a telling half degree. It turns that haughty posture into something a little more frank. Canny. Suspicious, even, if one is being uncharitable.
"In that case, you must tell me honestly. Are you concerned because you think I might feel some hesitation surrounding the possibility of finding a knife in my back, or because your believe I might do something untoward with whatever comes from our work?"
"In that case, you must tell me honestly. Are you concerned because you think I might feel some hesitation surrounding the possibility of finding a knife in my back, or because your believe I might do something untoward with whatever comes from our work?"
Broaching the subject without having to face silence (cold or stunned) seems to embolden him, for better or worse. He’s still haggard, dingy with drink, but some of the shocky, scruffed racoon fugue has eased off.
Speaking to him feels less like speaking to an animal playing dead.
“The former.”
It’s important to distinguish that straight away. The rest is on shakier ground, loose earth and leaves scattered across a tiger pit he knows is here somewhere. He should probably just let it lie.
Richard looks at her and measures. Bleary, serious, his chin tucked to match hers.
“I don't believe you would be willfully. Untoward.”
He hiccups.
Speaking to him feels less like speaking to an animal playing dead.
“The former.”
It’s important to distinguish that straight away. The rest is on shakier ground, loose earth and leaves scattered across a tiger pit he knows is here somewhere. He should probably just let it lie.
Richard looks at her and measures. Bleary, serious, his chin tucked to match hers.
“I don't believe you would be willfully. Untoward.”
He hiccups.
No one could possibly claim that it is the abject misery of his state which implores her to be so merciful. Surely there is no force in the world to encourage the likes of Miss Poppell to be considerate in circumstances where she doesn't come by the impulse naturally. Therefore, her logic must be genuine when she says--
"Then I see no reason why either of us should be troubled. If I'm unlikely to be 'untoward,' then it seems evident to me that you would have little reason to encourage the likes of Mister Rutyer to see me killed. Now should either of ours beliefs prove false, then I daresay it likely we have greater problems on our hands. But to me that sounds like a difficulty best broached when we come to it and not before, particularly when there are so many more interesting subjects to discuss presently. Would you or would you not like to try summoning your familiar through the rift which we might open in the caverns under Kirkwall?"
"Then I see no reason why either of us should be troubled. If I'm unlikely to be 'untoward,' then it seems evident to me that you would have little reason to encourage the likes of Mister Rutyer to see me killed. Now should either of ours beliefs prove false, then I daresay it likely we have greater problems on our hands. But to me that sounds like a difficulty best broached when we come to it and not before, particularly when there are so many more interesting subjects to discuss presently. Would you or would you not like to try summoning your familiar through the rift which we might open in the caverns under Kirkwall?"
There is something in there he disagrees with -- clear in the lines that bite in between his brows -- but Wysteria speaks so quickly and with such momentum. Even in complete control of his faculties, he’d have a hard time getting a word in edgewise.
Here, today, he’s stumped to silence.
“Yes,” he says. He would. He almost says, I would.
Instead, he spends half the breath he was going to use for it dawdling with his mouth open while he reviews his own playback. He’d looked at her before, but this is the first time he manages hazy eye contact, fooled into it by his own disbelief. Perhaps he’s misunderstood.
“Under Kirkwall?”
Here, today, he’s stumped to silence.
“Yes,” he says. He would. He almost says, I would.
Instead, he spends half the breath he was going to use for it dawdling with his mouth open while he reviews his own playback. He’d looked at her before, but this is the first time he manages hazy eye contact, fooled into it by his own disbelief. Perhaps he’s misunderstood.
“Under Kirkwall?”
"Under Kirkwall," she repeats, as if confirming the weather beyond the window.
His answer, however brief, must satisfy her to some degree, for she begins the awkward process of uncrossing her legs. A scrap of paper is fetched to her as well and smoothed where it might be ready for some note to be taken at the drop of a hat.
"There is a formidable series of caverns beneath the city, and in those caverns lie the foundations of the old Tevinter city or something like it. The Veil is weak there, in part I believe due to whatever enchantments were etched there by the old masters of this place. You will see it for yourself if we reach the chambers at low tide, but it is positively lousy with rune work. It is the most sensibly placed location to do the work. Should something go wrong, we will be well within reach of reinforcements."
His answer, however brief, must satisfy her to some degree, for she begins the awkward process of uncrossing her legs. A scrap of paper is fetched to her as well and smoothed where it might be ready for some note to be taken at the drop of a hat.
"There is a formidable series of caverns beneath the city, and in those caverns lie the foundations of the old Tevinter city or something like it. The Veil is weak there, in part I believe due to whatever enchantments were etched there by the old masters of this place. You will see it for yourself if we reach the chambers at low tide, but it is positively lousy with rune work. It is the most sensibly placed location to do the work. Should something go wrong, we will be well within reach of reinforcements."
This might be new information for Dick Dickerson. At the very least, it’s old information considered from a newer, much more attractive perspective. He follows the paper she fetches as if he expects it’s part of the equation. A Clue.
He already has the material components. They’re in his room. He could go and get them now. His posture shifts only to settle before he can stand, snared and anchored by fresh unease -- the kind of permeating wrongness that creeps into a dream even before it unfolds into a nightmare.
“You should be angrier with me.”
It’s not really an accusation. Just thought to speech, cumbersome to her planning effort.
He already has the material components. They’re in his room. He could go and get them now. His posture shifts only to settle before he can stand, snared and anchored by fresh unease -- the kind of permeating wrongness that creeps into a dream even before it unfolds into a nightmare.
“You should be angrier with me.”
It’s not really an accusation. Just thought to speech, cumbersome to her planning effort.
Edited (what are words really) 2021-03-03 06:38 (UTC)
Unlucky for Dick Dickerson, the paper has no part in this whatsoever. If it did, it might keep her attention for slightly longer. Unfortunately, Wysteria looks up. And for the first time since he arrived--since before the dream; possibly for the first time ever at all--, she regards the man she finds before her rather than some interesting concept which lays both through and beyond him.
"Explain to me why."
"Explain to me why."
It’s slow going.
Her words have to soak through a defensive prickle at his chops -- that he should be pressed on like a snake under her boot, his ears rushed red. But he’s too soggy for the pressure to keep; it lets off in grades as he unmires himself to think in earnest, and is gone entirely by the time he’s boxed it down into something simple and true.
“It wasn’t fair.”
He doesn’t add that he knows humans to be greatly concerned with fairness.
He has been very concerned with it himself, lately.
Her words have to soak through a defensive prickle at his chops -- that he should be pressed on like a snake under her boot, his ears rushed red. But he’s too soggy for the pressure to keep; it lets off in grades as he unmires himself to think in earnest, and is gone entirely by the time he’s boxed it down into something simple and true.
“It wasn’t fair.”
He doesn’t add that he knows humans to be greatly concerned with fairness.
He has been very concerned with it himself, lately.
Her eyes narrow on him. For a moment, the line of her mouth slants toward a frown. It's a calculating examination, a thing made up of measuring and weighing until at last she realizes he is being quite serious. Genuine, even.
Wysteria scoffs. Or laughs. Her Ha! falls somewhere between the two.
"Forgive me," she says. Not for laughing, not for finding the suggestion ridiculous. She wouldn't apologize for something so small as that. "But if that's all, then I remain unconvinced. I truly do regret it if I'm the first one to say so to you, Mister Dickerson, but I'm afraid life has a certain way of being unfair. And I hardly think we should expect a bad dream to conduct itself better than reality."
Wysteria scoffs. Or laughs. Her Ha! falls somewhere between the two.
"Forgive me," she says. Not for laughing, not for finding the suggestion ridiculous. She wouldn't apologize for something so small as that. "But if that's all, then I remain unconvinced. I truly do regret it if I'm the first one to say so to you, Mister Dickerson, but I'm afraid life has a certain way of being unfair. And I hardly think we should expect a bad dream to conduct itself better than reality."
His brows twitch down at her Ha! But it stays a ha, and doesn’t rise to real laughter, rendering him safe from truly catastrophic burn trauma. Instead he is left to frown resentfully at her feet, the fuzzy lines around his mouth carved in stark against the lesser sting of a scoff.
"It’s different when it’s a friend who decides, and not fate."
He kicks up a brow at her, unsure he deserves the designation.
"A friend or any mortal with power in -- " how should he put this, he sits back up out of his slouch towards her while he fumbles, "an equation."
Yes that was definitely the right choice.
"It’s different when it’s a friend who decides, and not fate."
He kicks up a brow at her, unsure he deserves the designation.
"A friend or any mortal with power in -- " how should he put this, he sits back up out of his slouch towards her while he fumbles, "an equation."
Yes that was definitely the right choice.
The brow message of the brow is note. Recieved. Filed away like a record in a drawer in a great cabinet full to bursting with every manner of paper. Then, because he is hesitating, she waits a moment too before saying,
"Then as an affirmation of our friendship you will simply have to act more thoughtfully in the future when it may actually make some difference to me. And should such a time come where we are in similar straights and you conduct yourself in the same fashion as you did in that dream—Well."
Wysteria doesn't shrug, but there is something of the sense of it in the tip of her head and how she rolls her attention to the page on her knee. The pen is there in her hand; she begins making notes.
"That is your a matter for your conscience, not mine. And in the interim, I am willing to risk it."
"Then as an affirmation of our friendship you will simply have to act more thoughtfully in the future when it may actually make some difference to me. And should such a time come where we are in similar straights and you conduct yourself in the same fashion as you did in that dream—Well."
Wysteria doesn't shrug, but there is something of the sense of it in the tip of her head and how she rolls her attention to the page on her knee. The pen is there in her hand; she begins making notes.
"That is your a matter for your conscience, not mine. And in the interim, I am willing to risk it."
Resignation buoys out of him in a great intake of breath let out slow into a sigh, his posture still fixed upright, pinning him to the chair back now like an old stocking to a mantle. It’s about the farthest thing from an assurance he can muster without speaking.
He watches her note-taking, and realizes dimly that the slip of paper was blank.
“Holden told me you had a theory about where we come from.”
He watches her note-taking, and realizes dimly that the slip of paper was blank.
“Holden told me you had a theory about where we come from.”
"Did he?"
It is difficult to draw a straight line across one's thigh, but she seems to be making decent work of the thing. She draws a great series of them, annotating here on there on the page as she goes.
"And tell me. Which part of it do you think is relevant to this discussion?"
It is difficult to draw a straight line across one's thigh, but she seems to be making decent work of the thing. She draws a great series of them, annotating here on there on the page as she goes.
"And tell me. Which part of it do you think is relevant to this discussion?"
He’d been very sure about this even before he knew about her theory.
Here he hesitates again, muddling over what he can see at a distance. Lines.
“The part where we aren’t really here.”
Here he hesitates again, muddling over what he can see at a distance. Lines.
“The part where we aren’t really here.”
Her hand pauses, attention rising from the page. Her frown is all befuddlement, and for a moment she allows the line of her eyes to rove about the room as if she might find some obvious connective tissue there. Eventually, she settles on him. There is really nowhere else to look.
"And?" Is shamelessly prompting. "I'm not sure I see how the two things align."
"And?" Is shamelessly prompting. "I'm not sure I see how the two things align."
The wise thing for him to do would have been to quit while he was ahead, and he could have returned to this subject never, or later, when sober and on surer ground. But he’s drunk, so he’s broached it, left once again to fish a coherent answer out of the bog between his ears.
“What happens to us is less important.”
Those are the words that fall out, so he is committed. But he can look at her when he says it, because he believes it’s true.
“Living here is a luxury.”
“What happens to us is less important.”
Those are the words that fall out, so he is committed. But he can look at her when he says it, because he believes it’s true.
“Living here is a luxury.”
The point of her pen wavers, touching absently down onto the page before floating automatically up again. She has spent a lifetime attempting to avoid irrelevant spots on paper; this give and flex in his wrist is nearly automatic and entirely thoughtless.
"It seems Mister Holden has misrepresented my theory to you."
With a flick of the pen, she resumes drawing her schematic.
"I see where the confusion lies, of course. It is the part where I suggested to him that we are the product of a dream our true selves made which slipped through the fade. I can see how he heard that and interpreted it as us being—illusions, I suppose. While our true selves, our original selves, remain safely where they began. Their world goes on with them in it, and nothing we do here and anything which happens to us effects them whatsoever.
"But the moment we crossed the Veil, we became real and tangible and independent of those people. We are copies. Unstable ones, I grant you—connected in some way to the place from which we came or to our originals in some fashion, even—but not ghosts or spirits. In which case, I suppose I can see how there might be some reason behind the things which happen to us here being irrelevant. They are to our originals. But they matter very much to us as we are here. After all, there is little else that ever will. What's more, what we do is of every importance. Because eventually you and I will leave this place and someone else will have to manage after."
Wysteria punctuates a sentence. With a decisive flick of the wrist, the pen in her hand evaporates from between her fingers.
"Careful," she warns, leaning forward to pass him the note. On it is a basic drawing of the network of caves which they will find waiting below Kirkwall for them, and a series of runes which are etched in the largest buried rooms of the caverns. "The ink is still wet."
"It seems Mister Holden has misrepresented my theory to you."
With a flick of the pen, she resumes drawing her schematic.
"I see where the confusion lies, of course. It is the part where I suggested to him that we are the product of a dream our true selves made which slipped through the fade. I can see how he heard that and interpreted it as us being—illusions, I suppose. While our true selves, our original selves, remain safely where they began. Their world goes on with them in it, and nothing we do here and anything which happens to us effects them whatsoever.
"But the moment we crossed the Veil, we became real and tangible and independent of those people. We are copies. Unstable ones, I grant you—connected in some way to the place from which we came or to our originals in some fashion, even—but not ghosts or spirits. In which case, I suppose I can see how there might be some reason behind the things which happen to us here being irrelevant. They are to our originals. But they matter very much to us as we are here. After all, there is little else that ever will. What's more, what we do is of every importance. Because eventually you and I will leave this place and someone else will have to manage after."
Wysteria punctuates a sentence. With a decisive flick of the wrist, the pen in her hand evaporates from between her fingers.
"Careful," she warns, leaning forward to pass him the note. On it is a basic drawing of the network of caves which they will find waiting below Kirkwall for them, and a series of runes which are etched in the largest buried rooms of the caverns. "The ink is still wet."
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