[ Framed lean and dry as a fence post by the open door, Richard Dickerson exudes a strange patience for any glimpse of a knife he might catch. His clothes are dark and his collar is high and if Astarion’s never been bothered to notice before, he may notice now that he has a scar clipped across one cheek clear through to a notch missing out of his ear.
Promising.
The oil slick cat that plucks her way in after him is attuned to the decor, the flashing saucers of her eyes set straight away to snooping.
Her master follows Astarion to the table without falling prey to the same distraction, unperturbed by the narrowness or the clutter or the lack of any direct invitation to sit. He can see better in the firelight by standing, shoulders slanted to spare the lift of Astarion’s chin his shadow. ]
Hm, [ he says, as he gauges the age, the depth. The unlikely trajectory. Awfully subdued for a how did you even accomplish this? There’s no corresponding glance to question it, no uptick at his brow.
no subject
Promising.
The oil slick cat that plucks her way in after him is attuned to the decor, the flashing saucers of her eyes set straight away to snooping.
Her master follows Astarion to the table without falling prey to the same distraction, unperturbed by the narrowness or the clutter or the lack of any direct invitation to sit. He can see better in the firelight by standing, shoulders slanted to spare the lift of Astarion’s chin his shadow. ]
Hm, [ he says, as he gauges the age, the depth. The unlikely trajectory. Awfully subdued for a how did you even accomplish this? There’s no corresponding glance to question it, no uptick at his brow.
He does lift one hand, palm up. ]
May I?