Inbox - Fade Rift

[nonvenomous]

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

Comments

[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]

If you're in the Gallows I can come to you. Payment won't be necessary.

[ what's a favor between friends. ]

[illithidnapped]

[A favor called in later, most likely. At least in Astarion's cynical experience.]

I'm not— but I more than easily can be. Unless you haunt Lowtown or Hightown as I do, I'll meet you in the courtyard presently.

[This is where a 'thank you' should live. And it does, but after like a really, really long pause where he has to work up the ability to be nice...ish.]

And...[ugh] thank you, I suppose. Provided you do a decent job.

[nonvenomous]

[ Precisely. ]

You’re welcome. I can find you in Lowtown.

[ Lest he establish a precedent for taking patients in his personal quarters. ]

[illithidnapped]

[Perish the thought.]

I’ll be waiting.

[And once he's sent off directions to his own address, he is, in fact, waiting. Lantern lit outside his Lowtown home, heavy iron doors parted (though Astarion holds a knife in hand once he opens them, only put away only once he’s sure it’s his ally come calling and not someone else). It’s a frightfully cluttered place, small and narrow and little more than a glorified closet, but it suits well enough: finery and relics and trash scattered throughout like a fledling dragon's unkempt hoard.

By the fire there’s a small table, rickety. Astarion sits at it, lifting his own chin to show off two twisting cuts running from his lips down to the center of his chin, not bleeding (not yet fully healed, either), but visible all the same. A problem.]

As you can see, I need them gone.

[nonvenomous]

[ 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.

He does lift one hand, palm up. ]

May I?