nonvenomous | Inbox

[ More silence -- more speculative, this time, as Richard examines the sliver of green light peeking up out of his sleeve. The sliver of his shard is buried low in the heel of his hand, barely visible until he draws the cuff back to better see. ]

I hadn’t really thought about it. [ Sounds like an admission, matter-of-fact. ] Beyond the inevitability.

It’s not very different than traveling the world, is it? [ The little black slip of a snake has taken the pried sleeve as an invitation, and wound her way along his life line to lace between his fingers. ] Move on often enough and you’re unlikely to see the same faces again.

[ Aw, cute lil snake friend. ]

'Cept with traveling, you can always travel back. Nobody's figured how to do that with rifts yet, so it's more like dying, innit? One-sided death.

[ She glides over and under and around until she’s comfortable, coils shimmied in snug among more slender rings. ]

You walk the Fade when you dream, don’t you?

Sometimes, if I dream.

Mm.

[ The snake has hardly had time to settle when he reaches to coax her up under his collar instead, casual as slipping a cigarette behind his ear. Back out of sight. ]

I suppose my point is that there are many factors and few certainties involved in -- [ he has to pause to search for a word that makes sense and is at least passably inoffensive within his weed-logged brain: ] 'cultivating' a relationship with anything that has free will. That they can travel back doesn’t mean that they will. That they don’t travel back doesn’t mean that they can’t.

There's always risk, even discounting the unpredictability of the Fade.

[ She doesn't exactly zone out, listening to him, it's just that everything he's saying is making, like, so much sense right now.

Athessa blows out an appreciative breath that doesn't quite make it to being a whistle. ]

There's risk even when the Fade isn't involved. No guarantee that people will stay.

No guarantee they won’t leave or die or betray your trust.

[ Where is the joint? He leans and stretches to reclaim it, ultimately finding it easier to roll over onto his back in the process. Wherever and however he winds up, he stays and settles to toke there. ]

[ That's deep, man. Athessa watches him settle, then turns to look out over the... wherever is below them, and beyond. ]

Is it better to not get invested?

[ That's only the entirety of her reasoning for only having casual flings. ]

Even gods get invested.

[ Dick sets the joint aside on the stone, where the ember can chew back through the paper or fade on its own, and chuckles low in his throat. ]

The real ones, anyway.

How do ya know which ones are real?

[ Let the joint burn out. It was pretty much finished anyway. Athessa lays back on the low wall, one leg swinging lazily back and forth. ]

Never mind. That's a silly question.

Well, I have yet to see evidence of any native to this plane, so in your position I’m not sure I’d concern myself with the distinction, [ says Richard Dickerson, knowingly, from his position of being laid out on his back on the rampart with one arm over his head and the other resting near the slowly darkening remnants of a roach. ]

Hmm, [ The stars are different, he said? Interesting. ] I dunno about the Maker or Andraste, but I'm pretty sure if the elven gods were ever real, they're either dead or they've fucked off for personal reasons, anyway. The stories about them are fine, and I'd still rather get buried with an oaken staff [ Dalish tradition, ] than burned on a pyre or turned into a mummy.

[ Her attention drifts, mind wandering... What was she saying? ]

I dunno what my point was with that. D'you think talking too much gets in the way of thinking?

[ Dick brings his right arm up as a rest behind his noggin, hazy focus wandering between the “wrong” stars. He chuckles again at her mention of mummies, strangely sinister, and brings the other arm up to hood his elbow over his eyes. ]

I think balance is healthy for beings who think and feel. [ He stifles a yawn into a stretch and settles still save for the regular rise and fall of his chest, not entirely unlike his little snake friend. ] Speaking too little gets in the way of sanity.

[ She hums thoughtfully, or just idly, because most of her thoughts are echoes of what he's said.

And then for a few moments she gets distracted by her hands and just looks at them, holding them above her face. ]

I like talking to you, [ She says, casual and genuine. ] I mean. For your sanity you could talk more, but. You're smart and don't make me feel stupid for being. Ya know. Kinda stupid.

[ Richard doesn’t answer; the breeze tugs at his jacket, and flecks soot away from the remnants of the joint at his side. He might be asleep. ]

We’re all stupid, [ he says, eventually, quietly, drowsily. ] It’s part of being mortal.

[ Athessa laughs softly, because there he goes doing exactly what she just said he does. ]

Wish more people saw things that way.

[ Having retreated into thought (or one of a very few feelings), Richard keeps quiet. His breathing slows, and he jolts, starting half-awake, catching a glimpse of Athessa under his elbow, and settling in again. If she waits him out long enough, he’ll drift off and start to snore, right out there on the rampart. ]

[ She zones out long enough for him to fall asleep, and for a few minutes she doesn't make the very obvious connection between him and the sound of his snoring.

Veeeery carefully she slips off the ledge above him, reaching her leg over to step past his form onto the rampart. She'll tip toe for a few steps, then walk normally to the nearest stairwell.

When she returns maybe five minutes later, it's with a blanket to carefully drape over him. ]

Inbox - Fade Rift

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