Inbox - Fade Rift

[nonvenomous]

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

Comments

[illithidnapped]

You also avoided my question. [Despite pointing that out, however, he doesn't sound snippy about it in the slightest.]

I managed to find myself in possession of a few facial...nicks, shall we say. A pair of scratches that run the risk of scarring if they aren't properly treated over time.

Obviously, that can't happen.

[nonvenomous]

[ Quite nicked and tattered himself these days, Dick sits quietly in his coils for a distinct beat of silence. ]

Obviously.

[ he agrees. ]

I cannot guarantee the wounds won't scar but I can accelerate the healing process to minimize disfigurement.

real lol at thot eating a bunch of jewelry

[unshut]

[The drape of Fitcher's pale skirts on the dark, richly brocaded duvet of the grand bed in the chamber paints a soft shape in the dark. And very like a cat who knows she's in a place she ought not to be, Fitcher has made herself perfectly comfortable there as she sorts through the contents of the compartment which has lived behind the familial crest above the mantle.

The packet of sensitive letters with their tell tale yellow ribbon has already been separated out.]

Find me a candle, would you?

ding dong magic dog

[nonvenomous]

[ Partway to sliding a finely-carved comb from the vanity into one of his many pockets, Silas pauses to look back over his shoulder in the gloom -- first to Fitcher, and then to the dresser playing host to his familiar. A chunky necklace is squeezing its way slowly down her gullet, drawn inexorably inward. Strands of drool loop like silver through her snaggled fangs.

Thot is occupied.

He finds a candle at the mantle that will suffice -- thick enough to balance itself on the bedside table he transfers it to without a holder. The rune of his lighter glows after a flick of his thumb, once, twice; the wick is waxy and slow to take a spark. ]

Anything promising?

[ Light doesn’t fill the room so much as it warms the one side of it in shades of muffled red. ]

[unshut]

[Fitcher's 'Thank you' comes easily; she shifts closer to the fledgling light with the papers.]

Other than my friend's romantic poetry?

[She hasn't opened the letters, but maybe Fitcher's friend has told her something of their contents. Maybe this really is the petty vengeance of a spurned wife—I want him to have nothing of me, including all the kind words I ever wrote to him, and so on.]

Trading contracts. Deeds and the will. He'll have copies filed with his solicitor. There's a pretty ring in that little black bag that's too large for me.

[She wiggles a thumb in Silas's direction. Yes, she'd tried it.]

Nothing scandalous. Mores the pity.

[nonvenomous]

[ Thot’s jaws chew themselves back into shape, popping wet back into their sockets for her to lick her chops over the emptied box. She scuttles to the edge of the dresser and looks down to the floor, far below for her spindly legs.

An anxious tremor of her tail sees her looking to Silas for help.

But he’s sliding stoat smooth into bed beside Fitcher to better see what she’s dismissing, and also the little black bag with a pretty ring, plucked out from her shuffling with a deft turn of his wrist. He has fingers. ]

She must be a good friend, [ he remarks, very casually, as he upends the bag over his palm. ]

[unshut]

[Fitcher's makes an agreeable humming noise as she flicks through a few pages drawn free from a thin protective leather folio.]

Or I am.

[is a belated punchline, underscored by the sly look she shoots his way over the edge of the papers.

The ring is pretty and its setting distinct enough that it might risk identification were it to go missing. But nothing six months spent cooling in a pocket wouldn't fix. Maybe it's enchanted. Who can say? Definitely not me who would never think ahead far enough to spend AC points on a rando magic ring but always kind of wishes I was that person because that would be fun.]

[nonvenomous]

Mm. [ Silas returns the look. Or she is.

Supported on his elbow, he draws one knee up as he turns the ring over in the light, something uniquely fiendish about pulling one’s boots up onto the duvet of a stranger. It looks like it might fit -- sized up against his gloved knuckles.

Back into the bag it goes, and the bag behind his lapel with the comb, just as Thot fumbles herself off the edge of the dresser and lands with a sound like a coin purse hitting the floor. Silas ignores her shaking off the impact (jingle jangle, she’s fine) in favor of the papers Fitcher has drawn out and a flask he’s produced from the region of his belt. ]

Are we using the window or the front door?

[ No reason. ]

[unshut]

[Thot spilling across the floor briefly draws the eye, but prompts no glance toward the bedroom door. No beat of quiet to listen to approaching footsteps or to wait for some alteration in the murmuring sounds of the not too distant company. If that were all it took to spoil the evening, they'd have bigger problems to concern themselves with.]

I'm not much for heights.

[Fitcher turns a few pages further through her current sheaf and then, with a dismissive flick of the wrist shunts them back into their folio. This she folds in half and tucks under the packet of letters as if out of obligation. Other documents must go missing alongside the letters, after all.

She looks at him—slightly up at him, given her lounging.]

I suppose we can't stay for the rest of the party.

[Ha ha.]

[tender]

"Will you be alright?"

On his own. Asked without breaking away; Derrica has to tiptoe up to manage this hug properly, but she maintains the contact.

Richard's lost something. Who does he have to turn towards to ease it?

[nonvenomous]

“Of course.”

Why wouldn’t he be.

He’s looked up again and it’s hard to see his face this close against him, little in the way of inflection to support his assurance one way or the other.

This has been a long hug.

[tender]

Listen, sometimes a hug takes several weeks to complete.

There is faint skepticism in her expression when she does draw back. Her arms are full of his cloak now, and her fingers curl into the fabric.

"Alright."

Because it isn't really her place to contradict. Whatever she suspects, she puts it aside for the moment to tell him, "Thank you."

Richard has been very kind. He could have put her out the door rather than offered any comfort at all.

[illithidnapped]

That’s a start, at least. [Much like Gwyneth Paltrow, Astarion's already resigned to tapping every last supposedly healing resource regardless of whether or not it actually works, so:] Where should I meet you— and what sort of payment should I bring?

[nonvenomous]

No, I suppose not.

[ He agrees down into the act of working the cork out of the neck of his flask, murmured, distracted. The acrid stink of rotgut marks his success, sharp in the air. He swigs before he offers it out to her, eyes lifted to fine moulding around the ceiling, furniture they haven’t yet turned over in search of hidden compartments and probably won’t.

This is just fallout from a bad breakup.

The bed is a nice bed, though. And the duvet is a nice duvet. He draws his second boot up onto it to straighten himself out where he’s propped up, luxurious. Comfortable.

And quiet, for a moment, apart from a muffled jingling amidst the tippy tap of little claws. ]

You've never told me your name.

[unshut]

[The liquor from the flask goes down with all the ease of chewing gravel. Fitcher sucks in air to follow after it. She takes a second, smaller swig before returning the flask.]

I didn't, did I.

[As if somehow this is a thing one might forget as easily as leaving a shirt with a laundress. With a rustle of papers, Fitcher idly shifts the spoils from raiding the mantle compartment aside. There is a jaunty good humor to the angle of her chin as its propped on her knuckles. In the meager candle light, her eyes are very dark.]

Care to hazard a guess?

[nonvenomous]

[ The scruffy lines around his mouth take on a wry twist, shadows folded in around a smile that never quite surfaces once he’s turned his notched ear to face her. Her eyes have a way of catching in him, a barbed hold on his attention.

He thumbs the cork blind back into his bottle. ]

No.

[ Thank you, courtesy borderline in its obstinance. Mister Dickerson won’t hazard a guess. ]

[unshut]

[In that warmed darkness with her chin propped on her long hand, Fitcher watches him for just the narrowest moment—not the study of dissection or some measuring pause, just looking. Click, click, goes the scratching pad of little feet elsewhere in the room.

Well, then. If they're being candid:]

It's Serafine.

[nonvenomous]

[ There’s some cost to his asking -- the desire to know finally weighed over the more sensible need not to. Serafine feels true, in the low light and with her looking at him. ]

Serafine. [ He tries it out, just as watchful.

After a pause, he confesses: ]

My most promising guess was ‘Siobhan.’

[unshut]

'Siobhan.'

[It prompts some impression of a smile—residual warmth felt through making contact with a thing left in the sun. She doesn't laugh, but could.]

It's not bad.

[nonvenomous]

[ It would be an ordeal for them to have sex in this room. They are both in layers. The host could over-indulge or find someone of his own to retire early with.

His study of her warm beside him fogs his calculation, dry humor faded in his distraction.

He leans to kiss her, a muffled creak from the mattress under the sink of his elbow. There’s restraint to it -- a reasonable compromise. Very responsible. ]

[unshut]

[Extremely. That's why she slips her long hand up to idly scratch her fingernails at bristle of his cheek rather than setting it on his thigh. She doesn't even question the discipline, though it would be easy to do it with just her mouth. They're incredibly reasonable, the pair of them.

And here, Fitcher does laugh—a low gravel sound sliding into the space that follows after all this responsibility.]

It was good of you to come with me when I asked.

[nonvenomous]

[ Silas shows his teeth into her laugh, breath into breath, his free hand coursed light down her midline. Ostensibly neutral territory. ]

I would never pass by the opportunity for a burglary in Hightown.

[ He means it, arch, and a little sinister, and -- Thot flings herself up at their feet in a scribble of legs and tail and pinched teeth to test the duvet out for herself, her eyes flashing copper in the candlelight. The scrape of her claws at the brocade is a real mood killer, forceful enough to rattle the spoils in her gut. Very helpful.

With a glance by way of apology, Dick rolls back enough to fish his dropped flask out from beneath his seat, contact broken with the magic. ]

Is there anything else you want to investigate before we abscond?

[unshut]

Not anymore, [warrants arched eyebrows if not a full waggle.

With a soft sigh of the mattress under that rich duvet, Fitcher draws herself up to something nearer sitting than lounging. The slim folio and the letters are tucked into some interior pocket with only the most incidental crunching of parchment. If the proximity of the little scrabbling creatures pricks at her sensibilities, no sign of it shows.

(Is that good or bad?)]

Was this your business where you came from too, or is it an acquired habit? Between the parts where you're meant to be saving the world, I mean.

[Should she be taking stock of her rings after he leaves the room?, In the joke communicated with a look as Fitcher flicks her skirts out of the way of sliding free from the bed.]

[nonvenomous]

[ With the flask slotted away and his ‘creature’ scooped up under her chest and held close to his side, he holds eye contact on his way to swinging himself off the far side of the mattress. Oh my. ]

I spent time with the thieves guild as a function of my regular duties.

[ He deposits Thot gently at his feet and she scuttles with wind-up toy imprecision for the door to sniff at the crack. ]

Adequate compensation is a challenge for individuals of my standing.

[ Ergo, vis-a-vis. ]

[unshut]

[There, the bed between them and here the candle illuminating the shape of her hand and some glow of Fitcher's cream colored skirts where they peek between the fall of that bottle green coat.]

Guilded? My, Silas. I'd had no idea your resume was so extensive.

[She fetches up the candle, the glint of her dark eye and the cheeky slant of her smile briefly lit—]

You ought to consider marrying well should you ever return to that place. I've heard promising things.

[—before it's extinguished, and the dark closes back again. Time to go.]