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[nonvenomous]

Book/crystal/correspondence/action/whatever you desire.

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[nonvenomous]

That’s a level of interaction that elicits doubt first, and then a thread of exasperation, as if he wishes it was something he could quickly un-know. It’s fleeting. Why is Derrica so often at the center of these details. And why does she trust him with them?

But he has sins of his own by any inquisitorial threshold and eventually his curiosity brings his read of her back up to eye level.

“What do they say?”

No word on his awareness of the danger. The edges of his composure are still brittle.

[tender]

"It depends on what I ask," she tells him, before tempering it with, "But they aren't always clear. I interpret, as best I can."

Maybe she should be cautioning him more clearly. It worries her, even though Richard doesn't seem to be reckless or power-hungry in ways that would leave him open to harm.

But still—

She shakes her head, continues, softer, "It's why before it wouldn't be only me. The other Seers, the older women who had more experience, would be able to interpret better."

But Derrica was driven out of Rivain. And now she is linked so closely to so many people here. It would be a hard thing to leave, even to rejoin the Seers.

[heirring]

I—[Yes, it IS an interesting question and that means he ought to answer it.

Slowly, grudgingly:] To arrange our notes. And to discuss the findings, I suppose. I've a theory or two, but should like very much to know your thoughts on the whole affair. I will admit to having some bias on the subject.

[nonvenomous]

It may not surprise you to learn that I am not actually an accredited scholar, Miss Poppell. [ He just plays one on TV. ]

My primary concern is to make the entire company aware that the option of retirement is available to all Rifters willing to endure amputation.

[nonvenomous]

He’s quiet while he thinks about it, gauging for the first time Derrica’s age in earnest through a study of her face, the finer skin around her eyes. Nothing about her previously has ever registered to him on a richter scale of potential disaster. A mage is a mage, a healer is a healer. She’s always seemed well in tune with her emotions.

A little too in tune with her empathy, perhaps.

Reassessment with this added knowledge makes him tired, settles at the bottom of his heart like a spill of silt heavy through the ventricles.

“What kinds of questions do you ask?”

[tender]

"I haven't asked any. Not since I left Rivain."

And she stops short of talking about what the Mothers had asked, what prophecies had passed from them to villages and towns and beyond.

"Do you ask questions, when you hear them trying to speak to you?"

[nonvenomous]

Alright but what kinds of questions did they ask --

The focus of his study adjusts, suspicion tightened into crow’s feet, a glancing flicker of reproach he doesn’t try to hide. Spell broken, he looks away, the tension he keeps in his chest pinched in, held, and vented off in a soft huff of exasperation.

“Not anymore.”

[tender]

"Since you've been here?" is the right approach, Derrica thinks.

Maybe he was able to speak clearly before he fell through a rift. Or maybe it's more complicated than that.

And maybe it's easier to talk about this, than to talk about what he did and didn't ask for.

[heirring]

Well neither am I. An accredited scholar, I mean. Not as far as anyone in Thedas is concerned, in any case, so I hardly see why that should stop—You're not considering amputation yourself, are you Mister Dickerson?

[nonvenomous]

The luxury of choice certainly has some appeal. [ Not quite muttered. He glances back to the sound of footsteps past his door. ]

The behavior of lyrium upon exposure to your severed limb alongside the relationship between rift location and the presence of lyrium deposits may indicate that our physical forms are soulless flesh golems “grown” from seeded lyrium.

[ If she is going to insist on peppering him with uncomfortable questions -- ]

Had the anchor maintained its magic, I should have been very interested to see if the sample we provided ultimately managed to manifest a second Wysteria Poppell.

[nonvenomous]

“Since I determined it was an impostor.”

His hands are sorely wanting for a novel to leaf through to separate himself from his reluctance to answer at all, scabbed knuckles curled instead for him to fuss with the lay of his blanket. It’s already very tidy, up to the point he twists out of it like a beached ginger merman.

[tender]

There is a sincere urge to put her hands over his. It even flutters at her fingers, shifts her body to turn more fully towards him.

But Richard likely wouldn't appreciate it. So Derrica settles for holding her place, brow pinched into a worried frown.

"What does that mean?"

[nonvenomous]

Piano wire tension flinches taut up the back of his near arm at her shift -- the surface of a defensive flare that brands bright in his eyes in a look flashed quick aside. This is the bristle of a creature coiled at the bottom of a drain, starved and hateful and ready to snip off the end of the finger being curled down the chute after it.

There and gone.

He folds it away under a spring draw of tension, haggard through his chest, hard bit into collarbones and across his shoulders.

“It isn’t Oghma,” he says, finally, measured over an ill-repressed shiver of exhaustion. “I’m sorry I mentioned it. Please let me rest.”

bow on this y/y?

[tender]

"I'm sorry."

Taking his hand would be unappreciated. Derrica knows this, and so tamps down the notion more thoroughly. The minor hesitation at the request is quickly pushed aside. She rises, reaches to give the blankets a quick tug to cover him more securely and erase the evidence of her perch.

"I'd like to talk of it again, please. When you're ready."

Based on their current track record of discussing magic related information, that might well be another year. Derrica does not point this out.

[heirring]

[With a clear note of approval, evidently pleased to have goaded him into theorizing:]

Perhaps we might mention that in our report, so that everyone may have a reason to be very grateful and reassured by the fact that it failed to.

[She is not unaware of her affect on people, Mister Dickerson. Also, for her part she would dislike it if there were a second version of her around. Particularly if that Wysteria Poppell had both her arms.]

A shame that it's only the people who come through the rift that have anchors. [A pause. Then, abruptly:] Do you suppose a Rifter might be able to handle lyrium directly?

[nonvenomous]

[ Hedging hesitation falters at what might otherwise have been a ready agreement. On the one hand, the potential for growing a biological blank from raw lyrium is theory they should be careful to keep out of the wrong hands.

On the other, it might already be in their hands. Anyway, sectioning evil away from the equation, it’s hard to imagine hands worse than theirs. ]

It’s possible. [ He’d come very close to touching the core of Isaac’s staff, once. Just to see. ]

If the Venatori have already arrived at these conclusions, I’d hazard they already have the answer. [ Being altogether less concerned with the potential side-effects for any Rifters they possess. ]

Who should we poison?

bangs open door (hit this whenever)

[tender]

Is Richard in his room? The increasingly frantic hammering at his door says that Derrica certainly hopes so.

cracks knuckles

[nonvenomous]

He is not.

At the far opposite end of the hall, a hunched, sneaking shape emerges silently from the slip of a cracked door, closed quietly after him. One second the corridor beside her is empty, the next, Richard’s rickety corpus is ssssing at her like a stray cat to interrupt the racket as he fumbles his keys up out of his pocket.

He’s hastily-dressed, barefoot and with his coat bunched under one arm, and his assessment of her for injury in aside is at least slightly accusatory. Honestly.

“What’s wrong?”

[heirring]

[Somewhere, Wysteria makes a face of displeasure—a wrinkled nose, a grimacing mouth. But lacking those visual cues, does she sound appropriately chagrined by the wording when she says,]

It would have to be an entirely voluntary experiment, of course.

[Probably less than one might prefer.]

buckle up

[tender]

Maybe in a day or two, Richard's appearance will filter through enough to raise some questions.

However, at the moment, Derrica has bigger things on her mind. Her hair is half-braided, someone's handiwork coming apart as she spins to Richard. The momentum, all that banging, comes round to catch hold of his arm. Her fingers clutch over the bundle of his coat, cushioning her vise of her grip.

Her eyes are wet.

"Holden," she says first, and chokes on a sob.

[nonvenomous]

There’s a fierce whipcord wriggle where Ribbon is caught under the clutch of her fingers, thrashing counter to the lay of muscle drawn tense over bone as Richard pauses to process: the braid, the tears, the utterance of Jimothy Holden’s name. His eyes are osprey sharp on her in the castle gloom, but challenge is fleeting -- a bristling prickle let off as quickly as he recalls what he wants to be true rarely has any bearing on reality.

He’s stump still for a brief absence, easily jostled.

A click marks the slide of his key through the lock a moment later; he opens the door for her.

Given an inch, the snake up his sleeve dashes deeper into the linen of his tunic.

[tender]

The snake too is spared any question. Exceptionally convenient circumstances for Richard Dickerson, escaping scrutiny on account of greater disaster bearing down on them.

Her expression turns only briefly questioning. Despite coming here, banging on his door hard enough that she might have shattered something or woken the rest of the hall, she hadn't exactly considered that she might gain entry.

But the uncertainty passes. She crosses the threshold. Derrica has come in bare feet as well. She is wrapped in slouching layers of wool and linen, and they flutter after her as she disregards all potential seats to pace the length of his room and turn back, hands twisting the braided cord around her waist.

What can she say? Realizing she has to explain herself doesn't make the words come.

[nonvenomous]

The open swing of the door stirs chill air, cold gripped in through stone walls and floors around a dark hearth, full of coals. It stings the ears and bites toes to the bone. A desk to one side is host to a scattering of books and vials and bottles and papers; the table at the room’s center is host to a bottle of wine, a lamp, and a pair of careworn chairs.

Richard starts at the hearth, jacket dropped across his unmade bed.

There are a few logs in a stack, a tinderbox, the snap of a flint. It will take time for seeded flame to crawl up into the wood. He leaves it to transplant a bottle of whiskey from his desk to the table, stirring through the mist of his own breath on his way back to the chest at the foot of his bed.

Loxley’s old cot stands still and grey opposite his work.

[tender]

If reaching for magic didn't feel so dangerous in the moment, Derrica might have tended to the hearth herself. Matthias had taught her enough that she could bring up flame, but it's volatile and she isn't—

It's a small room, but she hasn't stopped moving. All useless energy. What can she do? Nothing. All this is fear and desperation that goes nowhere.

Even Richard can't change what's happened. Coming here won't do anything, except it means she isn't alone now.

The quiet, hitching quality of her breath has slowed, but the tears haven't. Even when she swipes at her cheeks, it makes no difference.

"I'm sorry. I think I'm wasting your time."

She doesn't want whiskey. Or wine. Or anything other than to go back to an hour before when Holden had first knocked on her door. Maybe if she'd said something different or they'd gone into Kirkwall or down to the garden or anything other than sit together talking, the night would have unfolded in another direction.

[nonvenomous]

Having stood to draw the ratty scruff of a great furry cloak up out of the open chest, Dick turns to look back at her with it in his hands. He’s always been rawboned, but is especially so now for the cold, elbows pinned in at his sides, not enough hair on him to keep a shiver out of his breath.

“I’m not sure Rifters have time to waste.”

He says so very reasonably.

Time taken up by engaging with Byerly Rutyer notwithstanding.