nonvenomous: (hi)
Richard Dickerson ([personal profile] nonvenomous) wrote2034-10-19 09:51 am

Inbox - Fade Rift







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

unshut: ([006])

me yesterday typing html on my phone: why the hell did I put this thread in brackets

[personal profile] unshut 2022-03-16 07:08 am (UTC)(link)
Dreadfully. But that won't change with the hour.

[She's not—sorry he asked, anymore than she is for rifling around in some rich man's things. Fitcher pauses only a moment, her head tipped toward him like the way an attentive and clever dog keeps her ear cocked for a whistle or command. Sensitive as she may be to the flicker of his mood, her own good humor is plenty resilient.

(When she looks at him, there's some note of expectation in it. Why, does he have some alternative in mind?)]
unshut: ([004])

the reward for your initiative is me falling off the planet for 3 weeks straight

[personal profile] unshut 2022-04-04 07:56 pm (UTC)(link)
The dismissive slant of the brow and tip of her head in reply for this first suggestion—she likes her own bed and her little room in the Gallows just fine despite the inconvenience of having to brave the harbor to get to it—doesn't have the opportunity to fully develop before it's replaced by a flicker of real interest for the second.

"Are you trying to prey on my weaknesses? You scoundrel."

But also, faux outrage aside:

"I know a place."

Obviously.
unshut: ([010])

[personal profile] unshut 2022-04-23 11:11 pm (UTC)(link)
"And here I thought she might turn conveniently inside out like a purse."

The sidelong look she paints him with is so brief that it's impossible to tell exactly how much of the exasperation is put on for show and how much is secretly true. But luckily, there is no shortage of Kirkwall alleys to be sick in. Even here at the fringe of Hightown, it doesn't take long before Fitcher is veering down some narrow little side street where they might find a particularly dark corner into which Thot can hork up the rich contents of her stomach.

"I'm surprised you sent her away with Ellis."
unshut: ([001])

[personal profile] unshut 2022-04-30 03:40 am (UTC)(link)
Fitcher doesn't assist in the scrubbing. She does however stand patiently over the pair of them with her eyeline (if not the bulk of attention) trained toward the busier end of the narrow little miscellaneous side street while Thot gags out a second earring and a brooch inset with a citrine stone only slightly more modestly sized than one of the the cat's own saucer eyeballs.

"I was under the impression that was the whole point of the crystals."

She tilts her ear slightly toward him, but doesn't actually look at the arrangement of squiggly cat summon and Richard's birdwinged limbs. If a hand is offered for whatever mostly not-damp article might require one of her own pockets then it's done so more or less blindly. Don't put something slimy in it.
unshut: ([013])

[personal profile] unshut 2022-04-30 08:04 am (UTC)(link)
The brooch is accepted with the delicacy of a soft mouthed dog taking a bird into its teeth—all fingertips, the palm of her large hand cupped as if wary of saliva remnants (Fade-touched or otherwise). Her inspection of the piece is less circumspect, turning it in a stripe of moonlight to examine the setting. It's pretty, though she has little use for a yellow stone in her wardrobe.

"He must have told you a little of what his business was then." The brooch disappears inside her cloak. Fitcher flashes him an apologetic look. "I'm desperately curious."
unshut: ([005])

[personal profile] unshut 2022-04-30 04:00 pm (UTC)(link)
She oohs. She aahs. She flicks the edge of her reversed cloak back to center. "Paperwork. My favorite."

It's punctuated by a waggle of eyebrows made stark in the bit of light she's inhabiting. Like a turned knife, that casually sharp point of Fitcher's curiosity blunts as it's diverted. She doesn't offer him her arm, but it would ruin the concealing lines of her clothes to do so. Don't look so serious, Silas. Your face will get stuck that way.

"The exciting sort of documents, I hope. Account ledgers. Letters of licence. Something with lots of squiggly numbers."
unshut: ([004])

[personal profile] unshut 2022-04-30 10:11 pm (UTC)(link)
Research. Pass, says the tilt of her brow, as if she has any real say over where she goes and what papers she rifles through. Otherwise that too floats beyond the margins of their little cabal without remark.

"Not those. And I don't think any of the rings are likely to fit my— Well." One of the chunkier bands with a flat dark stone, a sigil-less signet ring for the pressing of seals on unimportant correspondence is plucked from his possession and tried on a series of fingers while Fitcher tallies the rest of what is extracted from his pockets. The pearls with the heavy pendant, maybe. And there's a pin that must be a sapphire or some other darkish stone that might do well on his collar.

"A shame you haven't a pierced ear. You should consider it." The one that hasn't been mangled. "Highly dashing."
unshut: ([006])

[personal profile] unshut 2022-05-02 12:24 am (UTC)(link)
"Then let's hope that I don't steer us wrong."

But this will be fun—a game of losing the right things and sorting how to reap a little coin in return. By the time they tuck in for the evening, they might be a little richer. And if that fails, they'll at least have had an entertaining evening of disseminating their ill-gotten gains across a dozen different Kirkwall gambling tables. It's the enjoyably laissez-faire sort of wagering—the kind where the stakes are all more or less pretend, and there's no real method by which to come out worse than they are.

Thank you very much to their host for providing such a fine evening.

"Here. Hold still."

With the ring briefly at home on her slightly too small forefinger, Fitcher works the pin's catch free and then turns to him. She runs her hand matter-of-factly under the edge of his vest so as to stitch the pin high on his breast without jabbing Silas through the shirt.

Nothing for the inkblot summon shaped like a bundle of sticks arranged in the form of a dog, but presumably Thot's kept anything she cares to elsewhere.