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.
[ he hums a soft sound of acknowledgment.
if he were in the roci, this would be a moment he'd go for the med bay, let the autodoc do its thing, and not have to trouble anyone. calling silas now is equal parts because his hand stings like a bitch as not wanting to answer questions about it later. or, ideally, now.
on closer inspection, the book seems less book than something else; a surviving scrap of a page, or two, is handwritten. which isn't unusual, of course, in thedas; but surely silas knows what holden's handwriting looks like after all these months. ]
if he were in the roci, this would be a moment he'd go for the med bay, let the autodoc do its thing, and not have to trouble anyone. calling silas now is equal parts because his hand stings like a bitch as not wanting to answer questions about it later. or, ideally, now.
on closer inspection, the book seems less book than something else; a surviving scrap of a page, or two, is handwritten. which isn't unusual, of course, in thedas; but surely silas knows what holden's handwriting looks like after all these months. ]
[ Shallow as they are, the burns are easily softened, crispy capillaries coaxed back to the surface with that pervasive heat to dull the strangeness of the sensation. The language itself is more hissed than spoken, familiar now to Holden’s ears.
It only takes a few seconds; Silas sniffs when he’s finished, turning Holden’s hand like a piece of toast to be sure it’s evenly done. ]
Would you like to talk about it?
It only takes a few seconds; Silas sniffs when he’s finished, turning Holden’s hand like a piece of toast to be sure it’s evenly done. ]
Would you like to talk about it?
Edited (redundANT) 2021-06-14 03:08 (UTC)
[ he breathes out, taking back his hand.
a flicker of thought, as he glances back to the smoldering fire: she would never have seen them anyway. or he could say something flippant, easily; or some platitude, or pleasantry; or he could say no, because isn't that why he called silas instead of anyone else?
isn't it?
he says, ]
Most days, [ weighted, weary, almost enough to break, ] it's enough to try to help these people, and fight this war.
[ enough to have some purpose, some good to be doing, some reason to justify how he's survived, again and again, where so many haven't. to even imply that the cause sometimes isn't feels unforgivably selfish; there's the saying about old habits, and this is his oldest. the farm, his crew, this place: there's always something he feels he needs to save.
petrana had her counterpoint, the reminder that they owe it to themselves, too, to win the war. but the notion of fighting for his own sake isn't built into him.
he shakes his head, wry. the follow-up to that sentence probably doesn't need to be said. some days, it's enough; other days, it's apparently like this. ]
a flicker of thought, as he glances back to the smoldering fire: she would never have seen them anyway. or he could say something flippant, easily; or some platitude, or pleasantry; or he could say no, because isn't that why he called silas instead of anyone else?
isn't it?
he says, ]
Most days, [ weighted, weary, almost enough to break, ] it's enough to try to help these people, and fight this war.
[ enough to have some purpose, some good to be doing, some reason to justify how he's survived, again and again, where so many haven't. to even imply that the cause sometimes isn't feels unforgivably selfish; there's the saying about old habits, and this is his oldest. the farm, his crew, this place: there's always something he feels he needs to save.
petrana had her counterpoint, the reminder that they owe it to themselves, too, to win the war. but the notion of fighting for his own sake isn't built into him.
he shakes his head, wry. the follow-up to that sentence probably doesn't need to be said. some days, it's enough; other days, it's apparently like this. ]
[ Holden takes his hand back. Silas eases his hold to let it pass easily through his fingers.
His once-over inspection is as talon-scraping-bone close as it is removed, judgment wry through the lines carved in sharp around his mouth for whatever he sees. What a mook. But also: same. ]
Sapient beasts need more than purpose.
[ Speaking from experience. He’s comfortable enough to pat and squeeze at Holden’s shoulder, reassuring -- if nothing else -- in his bedrock certainty. ]
We’re all vulnerable to the void gnawing beneath it.
His once-over inspection is as talon-scraping-bone close as it is removed, judgment wry through the lines carved in sharp around his mouth for whatever he sees. What a mook. But also: same. ]
Sapient beasts need more than purpose.
[ Speaking from experience. He’s comfortable enough to pat and squeeze at Holden’s shoulder, reassuring -- if nothing else -- in his bedrock certainty. ]
We’re all vulnerable to the void gnawing beneath it.
[On the other side of the door, Gideon also looks much the same as he did: his gaze is quiet and penetrating, his expression still.
He meets Richard's eyes expectantly. Either he is being mocked, or he isn't, and he imagines he will find out in these next few seconds.]
He meets Richard's eyes expectantly. Either he is being mocked, or he isn't, and he imagines he will find out in these next few seconds.]
Edited 2021-06-15 22:38 (UTC)
[ More than half-expecting to see the log book held open out to him for corrections, Richard has to think a beat on what he’s wrought for himself instead. In an ideal world, he’d have stayed up a while drinking. As is, the scent of elfroot about the room is long stale, and his eyes are cool and sharp in their appraisal of the clergyman on his stoop.
He steps back to permit Gideon entry, tension pinned up under his breastbone and behind his ears.
The nug in Loxley’s bed blinks blearily at the spill of light from the hall. ]
He steps back to permit Gideon entry, tension pinned up under his breastbone and behind his ears.
The nug in Loxley’s bed blinks blearily at the spill of light from the hall. ]
[The nug goes unnoticed, or noticed and uncared about; it's all the same.
Stepping forward into the room, straight-backed and solemn, Gideon's presence is large despite his smallness of stature. He keeps going, until Richard is forced to either step back or share the air with him, radiating a strange intensity just beneath his outward calm.
He's here for one reason. The question is whether Richard is ready to pay the piper he summoned.
Stepping forward into the room, straight-backed and solemn, Gideon's presence is large despite his smallness of stature. He keeps going, until Richard is forced to either step back or share the air with him, radiating a strange intensity just beneath his outward calm.
He's here for one reason. The question is whether Richard is ready to pay the piper he summoned.
[ The door is still open when whatever jammed gear slips at the mere promise of proximity. Gideon steps in and Dick moves to tangle rough into him. Kissing isn’t strictly necessary for what he has in mind, but he rakes in to start there anyway, quick and dirty for the throwaway strangeness of it all, all prickle and tooth. How long has this man even been in Riftwatch?
How likely is it that they’ll speak again any time soon, or about this at all, ever?
He flattens one hand out to push the door quietly closed on their way to the wall, plunging the room back into darkness without bother for the lock. ]
How likely is it that they’ll speak again any time soon, or about this at all, ever?
He flattens one hand out to push the door quietly closed on their way to the wall, plunging the room back into darkness without bother for the lock. ]
[What they're doing may be kissing, but there's more violence than romance in the pressing of Gideon's mouth against Dick's, the claw of his hands into the man's back as he urges him against the nearest surface. He's strong for his size, his motions insistent and, perhaps hilariously, reminiscent of his demeanor in the infirmary: polite enough to not be outright offensive, but brooking no argument.
He pushes him against the wall, standing on the balls of his feet to meet Richard's mouth with his own.]
He pushes him against the wall, standing on the balls of his feet to meet Richard's mouth with his own.]
Edited 2021-06-16 05:35 (UTC)
[ These quarters are sparsely decorated: two cots, two chests, a table with chairs, and a desk -- nothing to knock or jostle as Richard is bolstered back. He’s busy digging his hands up under cloth for the lay of muscle over and under Gideon’s ribs, grasping at the heat and strength in him on his way down in wrestling pursuit of a belt buckle. It’s disorderly, desperate.
Unbecoming, for a snake.
But Gideon’s stretch upward makes it easier, as does their shared sense of urgency. Maybe they’ll make it to the bed.
Until then, it’s all clawing and biting and fighting clothes off against this wall in the dark. ]
Unbecoming, for a snake.
But Gideon’s stretch upward makes it easier, as does their shared sense of urgency. Maybe they’ll make it to the bed.
Until then, it’s all clawing and biting and fighting clothes off against this wall in the dark. ]
[Perhaps they make it to the bed, or to the floor, or perhaps they just stay against the wall, but when all is said and done (or just done), the affair ends as innocuously as it began.
Without speaking a word, Gideon adjusts his clothing, straightens, and takes his leave. One last inscrutable glance toward Dick as the brother lets himself out is all the acknowledgment he gives.]
Without speaking a word, Gideon adjusts his clothing, straightens, and takes his leave. One last inscrutable glance toward Dick as the brother lets himself out is all the acknowledgment he gives.]
[ purpose has served him, though; or maybe he's served purpose; or maybe it doesn't make a difference.
it was easier when he didn't think he could have anything else, couldn't imagine what a fuller life here in thedas would look like. what's been harder to grapple with is having a glimpse of it, and knowing he can't have it. though — his disquiet runs deeper than losing naomi, reverberates back from her, from the dreams, from ostwick, from arriving here.
any of which he could articulate, in the face of what is unquestionably kindness, with the grounding weight at his shoulder.
or, as he sets his palms on the desk's surface, ]
Well, I can promise you I'm not planning on burning anything else, void or no.
[ hands or books. first breaking a coffeemaker and now this, eesh. he has, at least, the good grace to look rueful as he says it. ]
it was easier when he didn't think he could have anything else, couldn't imagine what a fuller life here in thedas would look like. what's been harder to grapple with is having a glimpse of it, and knowing he can't have it. though — his disquiet runs deeper than losing naomi, reverberates back from her, from the dreams, from ostwick, from arriving here.
any of which he could articulate, in the face of what is unquestionably kindness, with the grounding weight at his shoulder.
or, as he sets his palms on the desk's surface, ]
Well, I can promise you I'm not planning on burning anything else, void or no.
[ hands or books. first breaking a coffeemaker and now this, eesh. he has, at least, the good grace to look rueful as he says it. ]
[ Disengage clocked and acknowledged with a dip of his chin, Silas curls his talons gently in before he releases his hold. The delay between realization and movement is fleeting, barely there. He was called here to contend with an injury. The repairs are complete. ]
See that you don’t.
[ He can see himself out as he saw himself in, casual in retreat, though he does pause to look back once he’s near enough the door to flip the lock. ]
I’m told some healers here charge for their services.
[ He is not serious. Probably. ]
See that you don’t.
[ He can see himself out as he saw himself in, casual in retreat, though he does pause to look back once he’s near enough the door to flip the lock. ]
I’m told some healers here charge for their services.
[ He is not serious. Probably. ]
Edited 2021-06-20 23:22 (UTC)
[ Stark naked and lean with half his collected clothing in hand, Richard watches Gideon glance back in the same strange silence. There’s a glimpse of red gleaming off the backs of his eyes from light spilled in through the open door -- terminated not when the door closes, but just before it does when he looks sharply away to the sound of Adrasteia II the nug ripping a little stuttering toot from her box, replete with a poff of sparks.
At least she waited until they were done. ]
At least she waited until they were done. ]
[ That look lingers, skeptical, and Silas sighs before hitching the door open to depart. He closes it as quietly behind him now as he did upon entry, leaving neighbors none the wiser. ]
The room's occupant is neither asleep nor in half so bedraggled a state as she'd been left in. She has washed her face and scrubbed under her nails with the help of some small porcelain basin. Her dark hair has been combed into a sleek curtain, damp enough still that it gleams in the low lamplight where Fitcher has made herself perfectly comfortable in bed among the various light summer blankets and assortment of collected pillows.
She is smoking, wreathed in some faintly sweet smelling vapor. If the assortment of pages loosely arranged in her lap and alongside her hip is any indication, she has chosen to organize papers in an effort to keep herself occupied and conscious. He has been a long while, and she has almost worked her way to a semblance of something like order.
Is there anything quietly missing from where it had previously hung about the room? Any papers omitted from her current stack which might have earlier been among the collection scattered on the neighboring bed? Any locks carefully turned or compartments once open judiciously shut?
Who cares; without a shift under it, the modesty afforded by Fitcher's steely blue damask housecoat is blatantly more suggestion than reality.
"Did Mado slip out of Hasmal with you?"
She is smoking, wreathed in some faintly sweet smelling vapor. If the assortment of pages loosely arranged in her lap and alongside her hip is any indication, she has chosen to organize papers in an effort to keep herself occupied and conscious. He has been a long while, and she has almost worked her way to a semblance of something like order.
Is there anything quietly missing from where it had previously hung about the room? Any papers omitted from her current stack which might have earlier been among the collection scattered on the neighboring bed? Any locks carefully turned or compartments once open judiciously shut?
Who cares; without a shift under it, the modesty afforded by Fitcher's steely blue damask housecoat is blatantly more suggestion than reality.
"Did Mado slip out of Hasmal with you?"
His survey isn’t as keen as all that. It’s late. The light has changed. He’s returned with intent. Part of him is surprised to find her awake at all, nevermind Orderly -- snared and held tell-tale in a second glance before he rolls the bolt over behind him, tok. A flash of gold leaf catches behind his eyes for just an instant when he turns, strange against the bed-ready ranginess of him.
Trick of the light.
“He did.”
Mado the canine mage. Mere mention of him is enough to give Silas additional pause; there’s a thoughtful delay to his placement of folded clothes atop Ashey Pelt’s old bedding.
“We parted ways at Tantervale.”
Trick of the light.
“He did.”
Mado the canine mage. Mere mention of him is enough to give Silas additional pause; there’s a thoughtful delay to his placement of folded clothes atop Ashey Pelt’s old bedding.
“We parted ways at Tantervale.”
"Did he turn into a dog for you?"
The papers, half organized as they are, are collected. With very little preamble, the whole sheaf is set aside on the little table between the two beds.
From her bower of pillows, Fitcher regards him with two dark eyes. Yes. It is late. And he has returned with intent, hasn't he?
The papers, half organized as they are, are collected. With very little preamble, the whole sheaf is set aside on the little table between the two beds.
From her bower of pillows, Fitcher regards him with two dark eyes. Yes. It is late. And he has returned with intent, hasn't he?
Closer to the bed’s foot than the little table with her notes, Silas stands a beat with poise pent up clean across his shoulders and behind his ears. Watching her watching him on the fringes of lamplight, hazy with want until an abrupt wrestle and twist sees him divested of his tunic, linen dropped aside. Any sense of order about him is undone as easily as that: underpants taxman gone wild.
The channel meat-hooked up his near flank is familiar, scar tissue twisting where it pinches in behind the blade of his shoulder.
"Should he have?" He’s sly as he turns again to sink onto the edge of the bed beside her, one hand snuck behind her knee to lift the edge of her coat as if testing the wealth of the fabric.
What a strange question to ask a colleague. Are people even allowed to turn into dogs here?
The channel meat-hooked up his near flank is familiar, scar tissue twisting where it pinches in behind the blade of his shoulder.
"Should he have?" He’s sly as he turns again to sink onto the edge of the bed beside her, one hand snuck behind her knee to lift the edge of her coat as if testing the wealth of the fabric.
What a strange question to ask a colleague. Are people even allowed to turn into dogs here?
The fabric has that light, silken quality of the definitely rich; the swirling darker pattern cross woven into it is smooth between the fingers. Beneath it, her leg shifts subtly to casually slip her knee out from under the coat's edge.
"I faintly remember him once being very helpful in that shape. But it was during that dream," she says, and pauses briefly to set the pipe stem back between her teeth. Fitcher pulls at it once or twice, then adds in a smoky exhale. "So who can say how much bearing it had on reality."
Is punctuated with a sidelong look characterized by the flicker of humor lurking at its edge. Who could say indeed? To that end—He is near enough that she doesn't have to stretch in order to take the talisman hanging down from about his neck into one of her long hands.
"What is this?"
"I faintly remember him once being very helpful in that shape. But it was during that dream," she says, and pauses briefly to set the pipe stem back between her teeth. Fitcher pulls at it once or twice, then adds in a smoky exhale. "So who can say how much bearing it had on reality."
Is punctuated with a sidelong look characterized by the flicker of humor lurking at its edge. Who could say indeed? To that end—He is near enough that she doesn't have to stretch in order to take the talisman hanging down from about his neck into one of her long hands.
"What is this?"
The brush of her hand at his collar pulls his eyes up from where he’s been sizing up that knee beside him. Stubble has bristled in ginger under the box of his throat, tidy lines gone all coarse with disrepair. A task for tomorrow.
“I’m a cleric,” he says. “It’s the mark of the god I follow.”
She’ll see his thought process as he winds through it: is she going to keep smoking, and if so -- that’s probably fine for a while, actually.
With her hand still on his talisman, he reaches to push out the angle of her bared knee in earnest. Casually making re-arrangements in her bower.
“We don’t chant.”
“I’m a cleric,” he says. “It’s the mark of the god I follow.”
She’ll see his thought process as he winds through it: is she going to keep smoking, and if so -- that’s probably fine for a while, actually.
With her hand still on his talisman, he reaches to push out the angle of her bared knee in earnest. Casually making re-arrangements in her bower.
“We don’t chant.”
"'See me kneel,'" she says, turning the talisman between her fingers. The angle of Fitcher's knee is very biddable, bringing a span of thigh around with it. With her spare hand, she removes the pipe from between her teeth so she might more easily continue the quotation. The tenor of the thing is low and smoky regardless. "'For I walk only where You would bid me. Sing only the words You place in my throat.'"
From her hazy wreath, Fitcher gives him a toothy grin.
"Your colleagues should consider implementing a few Verses. They're good fun."
With a last pull of smoke, the pipe too is displaced to the side table where it may burn itself out at a reasonably safe distance for her half organized stack of papers. Her hand moves from the token about his neck to his wrist, turning his forearm over so she might examine the scar she left him with.
"My, I am good with a needle." But more importantly, it's much easier to coax him closer with his wrist than without it.
From her hazy wreath, Fitcher gives him a toothy grin.
"Your colleagues should consider implementing a few Verses. They're good fun."
With a last pull of smoke, the pipe too is displaced to the side table where it may burn itself out at a reasonably safe distance for her half organized stack of papers. Her hand moves from the token about his neck to his wrist, turning his forearm over so she might examine the scar she left him with.
"My, I am good with a needle." But more importantly, it's much easier to coax him closer with his wrist than without it.
Edited (No, more specific) 2021-08-04 08:19 (UTC)
“If they’re all as lascivious as that one, we might have a case.”
It is easier, the light trace of his hand shaping itself to her thigh temporarily abandoned for him to yield to her reach instead, the tab of clay at his breastbone left turned from eye to scroll. He’s caught close and scruffy in the lingering haze of her smoke, watching her inspect her own handiwork.
Now that they’re here, there are traces of reserve plucked through the back of his wrist, fast fading to the low hum of her voice and the dark of her eyes.
The blue of his is washed warm in the lamplight, sharp bones in his nose and cheek and brow blunted by exhaustion and resolve. Wine prickles acrid on his breath. Affection is a human weakness.
He leans to kiss her.
It is easier, the light trace of his hand shaping itself to her thigh temporarily abandoned for him to yield to her reach instead, the tab of clay at his breastbone left turned from eye to scroll. He’s caught close and scruffy in the lingering haze of her smoke, watching her inspect her own handiwork.
Now that they’re here, there are traces of reserve plucked through the back of his wrist, fast fading to the low hum of her voice and the dark of her eyes.
The blue of his is washed warm in the lamplight, sharp bones in his nose and cheek and brow blunted by exhaustion and resolve. Wine prickles acrid on his breath. Affection is a human weakness.
He leans to kiss her.
Edited (i edit also ) 2021-08-04 21:09 (UTC)
He has kissed her before. Moreover, he is hardly the first member of Riftwatch to do so. It should be very easy to do for, not unlike conversation or a coy look across the top of a hand of cards or a very sharp knife, there is a simple utility to it. There is nothing at all so advantageous to her profession as comfort is. The best way forward in all things is first to not to make yourself a friend and confidant but to simply to be one.
(He had said it himself. That they might make positive headway for the war effort together. Yes. She can see how that could be true.)
Naturally, she has no reason not to oblige him. She lets him do it. And after she should laugh or maybe she should insist that he kiss her extraordinarily well knowing that he is perfectly capable of it. Instead, the tip of Fitcher's face makes the kiss very brief if not chaste.
"You look tired, Silas," she tells him. It is easy to tell when Fitcher decides not to pretend; she smiles less. That only makes sense. The world is a dangerous place when you're being at all honest with it.
Kissing him in return, which she does once her hand has been rehomed from that tab of clay to his whiskery cheek, is carefully done.
(He had said it himself. That they might make positive headway for the war effort together. Yes. She can see how that could be true.)
Naturally, she has no reason not to oblige him. She lets him do it. And after she should laugh or maybe she should insist that he kiss her extraordinarily well knowing that he is perfectly capable of it. Instead, the tip of Fitcher's face makes the kiss very brief if not chaste.
"You look tired, Silas," she tells him. It is easy to tell when Fitcher decides not to pretend; she smiles less. That only makes sense. The world is a dangerous place when you're being at all honest with it.
Kissing him in return, which she does once her hand has been rehomed from that tab of clay to his whiskery cheek, is carefully done.
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