nonvenomous | Inbox

[ A soft, sardonic laugh. ] Makes sense, you being so smart and all.

[ Of course that's not the only reason Richard is smart, but it's fitting. ]

Do you still have the dreams here? Or...are you...severed?

Am I? [ is kinder than his impulse to take a dig at her in the realm of relatively speaking. Dry skepticism is enough; he is an idiot in this place, plebeian, with barely the motivation needed to pick up the basics of Orlesian. But that’s a lifetime of study rendered utterly irrelevant for you.

He goes ahead and puts that sliver of pie in his mouth to waylay a question he should’ve seen coming, and takes his time chewing. ]

Severed, [ he decides, confidently, once he’s swallowed. ]

Of course you are.

[ She wonders what that must be like, to know with such certainty that a deity is there, guiding you, only to be suddenly cut off from them. The likelihood that anyone in Riftwatch can accurately read Richard's mood at any given time is lower than rock bottom, but even so, Athessa doesn't think he's implied in any way that he prefers freedom from their influence than the alternative.

Which just makes it feel relatively safe to offer: ] I'm sorry. I can't imagine what that must be like.

[ Partway through the process of sectioning off another bite of pie for himself, a strange, painful twist in his throat prompts him to pause. He swallows again, and then clears it. Cutting is resumed more intently than before, with an absent nod of thanks in aside for the sentiment.

The fuzzy lines around his mouth have bit in deep, grim for the table setting of weed and stars and pie.

It’s fine. Everything is fine. ]

[ That pause is hard to miss. The renewed intent when he resumes cutting the pie. There's no telling if it'd be more helpful, more comforting, for her to simply pretend she didn't notice, or if she should offer some further consolation than that.

So she splits the difference, somewhat. She reaches over to put a hand on his shoulder, a brief pat and squeeze before pointing skyward again with her other hand. ]

That one there, Silence, we see as a depiction of Mythal, holding a horn and a staff to represent scales, since she's the Great Protector and patron of justice.

[ Dick doesn’t bristle or grit his jaw or lean away from her touch. The ball and socket of his shoulder eases lax after an initial lock of tension; he swallows again, and nudges the bite of pie he just so carefully cut away from the rest of the slice without taking it.

He doesn’t look up to follow Athessa’s pointed finger skywards until it’s occurred to him to set the knife carefully down. ]

What happened to Mythal?

[ Seems like she’s really sleeping on the job these days. ]

She was killed by the other gods in their lust for power.

[ Turns out human nature applies to just about everyone. ]

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