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.
[ However far away, Richard raises his eyebrows to himself, self-satisfied with the prospect of leaving Riftwatch in the lurch while he capers up the coast with a partner in crime motivated singularly by her desire to spend time with him.
Maybe life here isn’t so terrible. ]
I’ll meet you at the stables.
[ He neatly spares himself the hustle of packing and making arrangements to store his gear before the show. ]
Maybe life here isn’t so terrible. ]
I’ll meet you at the stables.
[ He neatly spares himself the hustle of packing and making arrangements to store his gear before the show. ]
Captain is ready enough to hand the following day. Alongside a mule named Howard, who has big black tipped ears and a very red coat, they make their way out of Kirkwall with remarkably little fanfare and even less in terms of long-term camping gear. She makes it a point not to sleep on the ground if there's any alternative. Tents, it seems, are for suckers who can't find their way to various backwater inns.
Not that, a series of days later, they find themselves close to such an establishment. Instead, they are perched at the edge of a cliff face in Sebring the contents of some cove marring the coastline. Fitcher has already set down her spyglass, bored with the lackluster results of her attention. Having laid on her front in the summer-deep foliage for some hours, she now rolls over to her side—no, all the way to her back—and tucks the glass into her broad belt with a dismissive twist of the wrist.
"Have you ever made love outdoors?"
That's not a suggestion. It's just a question.
Unless— she fires Silas a sidelong look which consists mostly of eyebrows.
Not that, a series of days later, they find themselves close to such an establishment. Instead, they are perched at the edge of a cliff face in Sebring the contents of some cove marring the coastline. Fitcher has already set down her spyglass, bored with the lackluster results of her attention. Having laid on her front in the summer-deep foliage for some hours, she now rolls over to her side—no, all the way to her back—and tucks the glass into her broad belt with a dismissive twist of the wrist.
"Have you ever made love outdoors?"
That's not a suggestion. It's just a question.
Unless— she fires Silas a sidelong look which consists mostly of eyebrows.
There are lines of work that require bedding down on bare ground regularly enough for even humans to build up a tolerance. Those that don’t accumulate sleep debt and dodder off cliff edges or onto spear points or into blocks of carnivorous jelly. Particularly in the Free Marches, where there aren’t many creatures in the night worse than wolves, the swift onset of Silas’ snoring has been as much of a barrier to sleep as the hard-packed earth.
Thoroughly windblown and some days past caring about the starch of his collar or the press of his vest, he’s studying a book-bound map in his lap where he’s sat in the shade of a scrubby tree. The hand-drawn pathways are not of the coastline but of the Crossroads.
He loses the stubby joint at the corner of his mouth to the salt air a beat after he turns to look at her, lying as she is. The loss doesn't phase him.
“Not exactly,” could mean anything in this context. He doesn't elaborate.
But he is considering it now, according to his own eyebrows.
Thoroughly windblown and some days past caring about the starch of his collar or the press of his vest, he’s studying a book-bound map in his lap where he’s sat in the shade of a scrubby tree. The hand-drawn pathways are not of the coastline but of the Crossroads.
He loses the stubby joint at the corner of his mouth to the salt air a beat after he turns to look at her, lying as she is. The loss doesn't phase him.
“Not exactly,” could mean anything in this context. He doesn't elaborate.
But he is considering it now, according to his own eyebrows.
"My, very mysterious."
Lying there in the crinkling grass, she kicks one booted ankle over the other and begins to casually rifle through the pockets of her riding pants. It's only after checking the majority that Fitcher recalls the pipe she's after is tucked into the band of the broad brimmed felted hat in the grass beside her.
"How comes your map?"
The weather is thick and warm when they're not being scraped by the wind. And there's an ache low at the base of her spine that's both more and less bad if she lies flat. And if no one comes to call at this landing soon, she decides, they'll gather their things and move studiously along. There's a bath in her near future. She's manifesting it.
Lying there in the crinkling grass, she kicks one booted ankle over the other and begins to casually rifle through the pockets of her riding pants. It's only after checking the majority that Fitcher recalls the pipe she's after is tucked into the band of the broad brimmed felted hat in the grass beside her.
"How comes your map?"
The weather is thick and warm when they're not being scraped by the wind. And there's an ache low at the base of her spine that's both more and less bad if she lies flat. And if no one comes to call at this landing soon, she decides, they'll gather their things and move studiously along. There's a bath in her near future. She's manifesting it.
me reading it 5 times and assuming sebring must be some thedas town ive never heard of
nonvenomous
2022-07-03 09:32 pm (UTC)(link)
“I haven’t identified any patterns of substance.”
Why should he, it’s chaos.
He’s not long in watching her rifle before he turns back down to it, but his focus is displaced. Enough so that he folds the cover over and presses it flat after another moment or two spent over the same pair of pages. He has his satchel nearby to file it into.
Keeping low enough not to break the brush line requires effort; he shifts onto the pivot of one knee to scoot himself over through the beachgrass, stains and clinging seeds be damned. The view here, he can see now, isn’t any more exhilarating than his own was four or five feet yonder.
“How goes your watch?”
Far above, a hawk wheels in lazy circles over the cove, keeping a weather eye where he hasn’t bothered.
Why should he, it’s chaos.
He’s not long in watching her rifle before he turns back down to it, but his focus is displaced. Enough so that he folds the cover over and presses it flat after another moment or two spent over the same pair of pages. He has his satchel nearby to file it into.
Keeping low enough not to break the brush line requires effort; he shifts onto the pivot of one knee to scoot himself over through the beachgrass, stains and clinging seeds be damned. The view here, he can see now, isn’t any more exhilarating than his own was four or five feet yonder.
“How goes your watch?”
Far above, a hawk wheels in lazy circles over the cove, keeping a weather eye where he hasn’t bothered.
Fitcher's hmm as she knocks flakes of burnt tobacco from the pipe's bowl makes for a decent substitute in lieu of repeating 'No patterns of note' back at him.
"I thought I spotted a glimmer of sails on the horizon there a half hour off, but it may have been a trick of the light. It's not resolved into anything since."
She offers him the pipe and the tobacco pouch from her belt out to him. He's better oriented to pack it without the wind making a mess of things.
"If not for our friend's certainty"—the word of a gnarled old fisherman she'd cheerfully gossiped with some days prior—"I might be tempted to say this particular landing is no longer be in use and be done with it."
"I thought I spotted a glimmer of sails on the horizon there a half hour off, but it may have been a trick of the light. It's not resolved into anything since."
She offers him the pipe and the tobacco pouch from her belt out to him. He's better oriented to pack it without the wind making a mess of things.
"If not for our friend's certainty"—the word of a gnarled old fisherman she'd cheerfully gossiped with some days prior—"I might be tempted to say this particular landing is no longer be in use and be done with it."
“I could send Thot out to take a look.”
Surely that’s what she’s here for, too far adrift for her shadow to whisk across the cliffside.
Closer by, Silas has a light touch, the pipe taken and turned around in his fingers for him to examine the hollow of the bowl. He takes the pouch also, less careful in his handling save to keep it upright where he tucks it in at his side, away from the wind.
As a matter of course, out here in the direct sunlight, he nicks up her hat to fit it down over his own dome before he sets to packing.
“How often have you made love outdoors?”
Surely that’s what she’s here for, too far adrift for her shadow to whisk across the cliffside.
Closer by, Silas has a light touch, the pipe taken and turned around in his fingers for him to examine the hollow of the bowl. He takes the pouch also, less careful in his handling save to keep it upright where he tucks it in at his side, away from the wind.
As a matter of course, out here in the direct sunlight, he nicks up her hat to fit it down over his own dome before he sets to packing.
“How often have you made love outdoors?”
"What a shocking question," has just the faintest tint of playful faux-scandalized color to it as Fitcher folds her idle hands over her middle and allows her eyes to slide mostly shut against the sun.
Honestly. What kind of scoundrel asks such a thing of a respectable person such as herself?
(Yes, she supposes he might send Thot out. The idea of being certain enough to happily pack up and move directly on to the next little village en route, where they might come by a lukewarm bath and a bed or two, is tempting indeed.)
"Do we consider rooftops outdoors?"
Honestly. What kind of scoundrel asks such a thing of a respectable person such as herself?
(Yes, she supposes he might send Thot out. The idea of being certain enough to happily pack up and move directly on to the next little village en route, where they might come by a lukewarm bath and a bed or two, is tempting indeed.)
"Do we consider rooftops outdoors?"
He cuts a glance to her beneath the brim of her hat with tobacco pinched between his fingers. Consider him Ribbed.
A sharp whistle calls his bird back from her circling over the shoreline; she’ll thump down into the tall grass nearby while they talk, the world’s bristliest pine cone, all coal-dark feathers and green eyes. Bits of dried seed fluff cling in her pantaloons, her crest.
“By definition,” is the answer to Fitcher’s question.
Thot bustles airborne again without a word said between them.
“I nearly made love on a rooftop once.”
A sharp whistle calls his bird back from her circling over the shoreline; she’ll thump down into the tall grass nearby while they talk, the world’s bristliest pine cone, all coal-dark feathers and green eyes. Bits of dried seed fluff cling in her pantaloons, her crest.
“By definition,” is the answer to Fitcher’s question.
Thot bustles airborne again without a word said between them.
“I nearly made love on a rooftop once.”
The fhwumping landing of the bird stirs her only slightly—a cat, contemplating a nap in a bar of sunlight, flicking its tail in consideration of something it might ordinarily dedicate more focus to. Fitcher has only barely cracked one eye back open by the time Thot is on the move again, bade off by whatever silent communication has passed between man and fade-formed beast.
Instead, she turns her face from the rustled beach grass to Silas alongside. His hands move just beyond the edge of the hat's cast shadow. The sun is warm through the thin fabric of her rumpled shirt. She can feel the residual salt of sweat and ambient grit on her cheek and in the wrinkles about her eyes as she produces a toothy smile.
"With who?"
Instead, she turns her face from the rustled beach grass to Silas alongside. His hands move just beyond the edge of the hat's cast shadow. The sun is warm through the thin fabric of her rumpled shirt. She can feel the residual salt of sweat and ambient grit on her cheek and in the wrinkles about her eyes as she produces a toothy smile.
"With who?"
“With another Rifter, during the Satinalia fire.”
Recent, then, in the scheme of things, no undue tension to his knuckles curled to pack tobacco down between layers. He’s intent on his work, the pipe tilted just so.
“His name was Vanadi.”
Later that same evening he’d found Fitcher in a cramped inn in Kirkwall and folded himself up into one of her blankets on the floor.
Recent, then, in the scheme of things, no undue tension to his knuckles curled to pack tobacco down between layers. He’s intent on his work, the pipe tilted just so.
“His name was Vanadi.”
Later that same evening he’d found Fitcher in a cramped inn in Kirkwall and folded himself up into one of her blankets on the floor.
Does she recall it? That he'd slept on her floor after struggling out of his jacket? And breakfast the morning after with thick slabs of bacon and warm butter and thin watery cider, the ghost of grease paint whiskers still stuck on her face. The light gossiping with the hangover-delicate girl who'd served them breakfast about the details of the prior evening's fire.
Maybe. Hard to say whether it's that or some other thing that softens the put-on edges of her chosen expression. Maybe it's his attention on the job she's given him, or the slant of the borrowed hat perched on top of his head.
"Very handsome," sounds like approval. Good catch. Or at the very least, good near miss.
"Why didn't you?"
Maybe. Hard to say whether it's that or some other thing that softens the put-on edges of her chosen expression. Maybe it's his attention on the job she's given him, or the slant of the borrowed hat perched on top of his head.
"Very handsome," sounds like approval. Good catch. Or at the very least, good near miss.
"Why didn't you?"
If he’d intended to lie he might have done it earlier in anticipation of this line of questioning. Within the premise of this having occurred before his arrival in Thedas, any number of terrible flying creatures or supernatural events might have interrupted him and a Mysterious Stranger.
“He distrusted me.”
The wide brim of Fitcher’s hat would be a convenient barrier to glancing her way again. Silas glances anyway, matter-of-fact in his self-censure. Vanadi was handsome.
“It was impulsive.”
One last dusting of leaf and he tests the pipe before offering it back to her, blunt nails and smudges of ink under dirt in the creases of his palm. He has a familiar scar straight up the back of his arm behind it that she’d helped to stitch some months (years?) back.
“Who was yours?”
“He distrusted me.”
The wide brim of Fitcher’s hat would be a convenient barrier to glancing her way again. Silas glances anyway, matter-of-fact in his self-censure. Vanadi was handsome.
“It was impulsive.”
One last dusting of leaf and he tests the pipe before offering it back to her, blunt nails and smudges of ink under dirt in the creases of his palm. He has a familiar scar straight up the back of his arm behind it that she’d helped to stitch some months (years?) back.
“Who was yours?”
Fitcher shifts accordingly, tucking a bent arm between her head and the ground. The pipe's stem is set between her teeth and the bowl rests briefly in line with her sternum in the open V of her shirt collar as she produces her little Riftwatch issued light. It takes a few quiet moments to scorch the surface of the the tobacco, to employ the bottom of the lighter to tamp down the swollen flakes, and then to light the bowl's contents properly. Eventually, given a few reassuring puffs, she settles comfortably there in the crook of her own arm.
"Matteo Garza," she says, the words smelling sweet and earthy as she exhales them. "His uncles made silk flowers using a great press with metal stamps. It could be relied on to go thumping away from sunrise to sunset. Made for excellent cover so long as you were careful to bang away right over top of it."
Is that self-deprecation or boasting egotism in the look she flicks in his direction? Both, maybe. Youth is disgusting.
"But I'm not sure it counts. They had furniture set out up there in the summer."
"Matteo Garza," she says, the words smelling sweet and earthy as she exhales them. "His uncles made silk flowers using a great press with metal stamps. It could be relied on to go thumping away from sunrise to sunset. Made for excellent cover so long as you were careful to bang away right over top of it."
Is that self-deprecation or boasting egotism in the look she flicks in his direction? Both, maybe. Youth is disgusting.
"But I'm not sure it counts. They had furniture set out up there in the summer."
There is still the pouch to arrange for; he folds it over and secures the fasten, some leaning up across the fulcrum of his elbow necessary to fit it back down snug into her belt.
“Hmm,” he mulls, as he tucks. This does sound sickeningly youthful. But more importantly from this elevated angle and in the shadow of her hat, he can nearly see down her shirt.
“What kind of furniture?”
“Hmm,” he mulls, as he tucks. This does sound sickeningly youthful. But more importantly from this elevated angle and in the shadow of her hat, he can nearly see down her shirt.
“What kind of furniture?”
"I recall an especially prickly wicker chair," she muses, the angle of her hip shifting helpfully to assist with his work at her belt. "Otherwise the finer details escape me."
Presumably on account of having left slightly fewer basket weave patterns indented in inconvenient locations.
(The catch of the breeze is slightly too brisk for any exhaled smoke to linger long, though the tang it lends to the salt air is warm and rich and falls along similarly complimentary lines as the earthy crinkle of crushed long grass and the whiff of sweat.)
"Has there been anyone else from Riftwatch?"
Presumably on account of having left slightly fewer basket weave patterns indented in inconvenient locations.
(The catch of the breeze is slightly too brisk for any exhaled smoke to linger long, though the tang it lends to the salt air is warm and rich and falls along similarly complimentary lines as the earthy crinkle of crushed long grass and the whiff of sweat.)
"Has there been anyone else from Riftwatch?"
He’s musky with elfroot himself, stale under sharper sweat in his shirt and the scratch of his beard, his mouth creased now into a resentful crook at one corner for this latest question. Surely it shouldn’t surprise her that this might be a sore subject. So much so that it doesn’t bear remarking that wicker is at least as perilous as the scrub they’ve bedded themselves down in.
Silas unwinds from her and her belt to think on truth telling, bones lifted and reset for him to lie flat on his back beside her. The hat makes its way to the loose lacing of his tunic as he settles, preserving its shape.
“I slept with Brother Gideon.”
Silas unwinds from her and her belt to think on truth telling, bones lifted and reset for him to lie flat on his back beside her. The hat makes its way to the loose lacing of his tunic as he settles, preserving its shape.
“I slept with Brother Gideon.”
Fitcher's draw on the pipe is easy and steady and apparently untroubled by how he rearranges the angles of his limbs to fit in next to her. No, it isn't a surprise. She's good at picking questions he disapproves of.
(It's a pleasure to ask them. Feels a little like gambling.)
"Admirably sturdy brow. Excellent chin." She breathes out. "Shame about the zealotry."
She might offer him the short stemmed pipe while she's at it, but no. Instead—
"Raw luck."
(It's a pleasure to ask them. Feels a little like gambling.)
"Admirably sturdy brow. Excellent chin." She breathes out. "Shame about the zealotry."
She might offer him the short stemmed pipe while she's at it, but no. Instead—
"Raw luck."
There’s something dry in the stretch of his silence, a tilt at his head that kinks the grass beneath it. A few blades spring back to tickle through the wedge missing out of his ear.
“I knew it was ill-advised.”
Brother Gideon didn’t even have to tell him so explicitly and in no uncertain terms.
Whatever Look he’s giving her, he vanishes it behind the curtain of her hat reset to lie flat across his face. In there, he can trade fresh salt air for privacy and protection for his ginger constitution.
“Are you going to tell me yours?” He asks on a delay. Muffled.
“I knew it was ill-advised.”
Brother Gideon didn’t even have to tell him so explicitly and in no uncertain terms.
Whatever Look he’s giving her, he vanishes it behind the curtain of her hat reset to lie flat across his face. In there, he can trade fresh salt air for privacy and protection for his ginger constitution.
“Are you going to tell me yours?” He asks on a delay. Muffled.
It's a good shield of a hat—finely made for defending against the sun for cat naps and the keen attention of would-be examiners which might otherwise be difficult to steer elsewhere. The downside of it is that it's impossible to say which expression Fitcher adopts as she Mmms thoughtfully around the pipe stem. It could be anything. Grass points tickle at her wrist bent behind her head. She plucks the pipe from between her teeth.
"Mine's more compromising than either of yours," she says after some seconds of rotating the metaphorical hook in the sun.
From the inside of the hat, it could sound a little like a denial. No, says her even temperature in the afternoon heat. She isn't going to tell him. Only that's dull, so:
"I let Byerly and Barrow both think they might get somewhere. But, no. I'm afraid it's just you."
"Mine's more compromising than either of yours," she says after some seconds of rotating the metaphorical hook in the sun.
From the inside of the hat, it could sound a little like a denial. No, says her even temperature in the afternoon heat. She isn't going to tell him. Only that's dull, so:
"I let Byerly and Barrow both think they might get somewhere. But, no. I'm afraid it's just you."
It’s equally difficult to tell how sharply he’s listening, and in what degree of suspense. He does turn slightly towards her after a spell of quiet, a tell in the tilt of the brim.
“Ser Barrow is a handsome man,” says the hat. “Strapping.”
The hat has nothing to say on the subject of Byerly Rutyer. But he does reach up to lift the brim just off his nose after a break to consider this information all up, his thumb hooked and flexed wide from a pang through his anchor. His eyes are light in the shadow underneath, measuring her appetite for responsibility with Thot on the case.
“I could fetch a blanket.”
“Ser Barrow is a handsome man,” says the hat. “Strapping.”
The hat has nothing to say on the subject of Byerly Rutyer. But he does reach up to lift the brim just off his nose after a break to consider this information all up, his thumb hooked and flexed wide from a pang through his anchor. His eyes are light in the shadow underneath, measuring her appetite for responsibility with Thot on the case.
“I could fetch a blanket.”
There, pillowed on the crook of her bent arm, her head is tilted only fractionally in his direction. It's not a terribly flattering arrangement. Her chin has to tilt nearly all the way down to her chest to accommodate the angle of the pipe which, with a thoughtful hum like a low gravel scrape, she sets back into the corner of her mouth. After a few contemplative pulls from it, Fitcher raises her chin. The results of that languorous exhale are quickly swept away.
The sideways look she gives him after has a glimmer of fox slyness to it.
"Do you estimate I trust you, or have you just decided to accept ill-considered?"
The sideways look she gives him after has a glimmer of fox slyness to it.
"Do you estimate I trust you, or have you just decided to accept ill-considered?"
He has a free hand to fit in under the knob of his skull with her hat held just so.
Enough of a gap to keep eye contact while he weighs the truth.
“I estimate that you trust yourself.” And whatever instinct or confidence in coming out on top in a scrap that entails. He tilts one brow, not quite a shrug: a little chilly as acceptance of worst possible outcomes goes. He trusts himself also.
Enough of a gap to keep eye contact while he weighs the truth.
“I estimate that you trust yourself.” And whatever instinct or confidence in coming out on top in a scrap that entails. He tilts one brow, not quite a shrug: a little chilly as acceptance of worst possible outcomes goes. He trusts himself also.
Edited (remembering all the angst over murdering dream loxley hours later) 2022-07-07 08:03 (UTC)
Madame Fitcher has a dozen smiles in her catalogue, and it's often obvious (in the way that a liar will sometimes playfully confess to being one) when she rifles through her cards and selects one to play rather than coming by it naturally.
But this one blooms rather being drawn. It's slow and crooked, and the wrinkles it makes are deeper for the dust and sweat. 'Narcissism' would be a cruel accusation. Instead, consider: pleased to be recognized.
"I could make do with a blanket."
But this one blooms rather being drawn. It's slow and crooked, and the wrinkles it makes are deeper for the dust and sweat. 'Narcissism' would be a cruel accusation. Instead, consider: pleased to be recognized.
"I could make do with a blanket."
Is this terrible?
It feels a little terrible.
The crook of his smile back at her is just as grungy -- less easily defined in the shadow of her hat, save that he seems to know what he’s wagering. Surely that’s part of the thrill, permeating as the queer pang at the back of his heart when she smiles at him. He lingers in the grass a beat before grunting back up onto one arm, and from his arm to his feet.
There’s still a hint of a hitch to his step, brush line (briefly) be damned.
Her hat goes with him, seated snug with an unapologetic glance back. His satchel stays behind.
Camp isn’t far.
It feels a little terrible.
The crook of his smile back at her is just as grungy -- less easily defined in the shadow of her hat, save that he seems to know what he’s wagering. Surely that’s part of the thrill, permeating as the queer pang at the back of his heart when she smiles at him. He lingers in the grass a beat before grunting back up onto one arm, and from his arm to his feet.
There’s still a hint of a hitch to his step, brush line (briefly) be damned.
Her hat goes with him, seated snug with an unapologetic glance back. His satchel stays behind.
Camp isn’t far.
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