Inbox - Fade Rift

[nonvenomous]

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

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[unshut]

[Her expression is open

—ly pale with seasickness.]

Adapting. To the place.

[nonvenomous]

[ In that case, ]

No, [ is an easy answer, repeated with even greater certainty: ] no.

He’s always had horns. He’s used to being disrespected by humans.

[ Dick bundles deeper into his cloak. ]

I'm sure he feels right at home.

[unshut]

And yourself?

[is punctuated by a following slap of a wave and another hiss of spray; Fitcher recoils, one gloved hand clapping down in the boat's combing to steady herself off.]

Maker.

[nonvenomous]

[ Richard’s bench jumps beneath him, sending a ramrod shock up his spine to his shoulders. Fuck ‘Drakonis,’ and fuck this ferryman and especially fuck ”The Maker.”

But the docks are finally within sight, black against all the grey and mottled with lamplight. ]

I’d be better off clerking.

[unshut]

There's no end of paperwork for the division if you're fond of it, [she manages, forcing herself not to close her eyes. These things always go more poorly in the dark.] I for one would welcome the assistance; the last time I can recall being current with the filing was prior to Serah Dalat's departure.

[Her attention has fixed on the bilge cover between them, and only now does she realize she can see the water at the bottom of the boat sloshing back and forth under the soles of their shoes.]

Pardon me for a moment, Richard.

[She has business over the boat's side to attend to.]

[nonvenomous]

‘Fond’ is a strong word, [ for paperwork, ] but I wouldn’t mind an occasional retreat into monotony. [ The demons of this plane are a very physical people, and he left his crossbow in another dimension.

There Fitcher goes, while he’s still thinking about his crossbow.

After a moment, he leans to brace a hand at her shoulder, steadying with a supportive pat pat. The look on his face while he does it is inscrutably distant, but only the ferryman is there to see. And he’s busy. ]