Richard Dickerson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nonvenomous) wrote2034-10-19 09:51 am
nonvenomous) wrote2034-10-19 09:51 am
Inbox - Fade Rift
Book/crystal/correspondence/action/whatever you desire.
Book/crystal/correspondence/action/whatever you desire.
Book/crystal/correspondence/action/whatever you desire.
me googling arguments about spontaneous generation in the 1700s like i did this to myself
"Encouraged, is how I've always thought of it." Thought is its own shape, within magic. "But transfer is perhaps more accurate. There must be a tipping point. To which each of us, our life belongs elsewhere."
Something levels in the pitch of his brows, less performative. It would be easy to mistake for discomfort. A moment passes, is shrugged off. Light:
"If it's wet enough, you get mushrooms."
no subject
Richard nods his understanding, half to Isaac, and half to himself. Practice keeps him from glancing away as he does it, his skepticism banished to a sliver of a delay in processing. When Rah-shak halves a gnoll’s skull with her axe, is she encouraging its brain to leave its case?
It doesn’t matter, he just has to make it out of this room without being turned into a moist bed for fungi.
“I’ve heard hill giants can have that problem.”
Jock itch on a massive scale. Anyway --
“Your staff,” he reminds.
no subject
Should he like. Leave. With the Tranquil, he usually leaves.
no subject
Easy.
Hands at his sides, Richard offers no clue in posture or tone to help Isaac along with deciding one way or the other. He waits (with the empty patience of a blue-eyed grackle waiting for a french fry) until he adds:
“You can hold it in place if you like. A level surface would be best.”
no subject
Of course he does, shifting to make room less for Richard than to shuffle off uncertainty. It clears a space about the desk, all the same.
"Very well," He stretches to press the pieces together. "Qui ne risque rien n'a rien."
no subject
“No risk, no reward?” he guesses, when all is finally clear for him to step in and place his hands on either side of the break.
“I’ve been meaning to study Orlesian.”
Matter-of-fact, with a glance aside, and the crook of half a smile. Keeping with the theme of normalcy, he then proceeds to murmur over the staff in a language most often associated with demons and snakes, sibilant, breathy. If it was any less casual, an eavesdropper could be forgiven for thinking this is part of the slow build to an unwilling sacrifice.
definitely not almost a month later
Richard speaks, if one may call it speech — there are things that hiss in dreams, that wind through paths of Fade. Few of them own tongues, but every night, you can listen.
You can grow used to anything.
He listens, and it isn't casual; not really. The tension in his hands draws them up new, knuckles lifted with a degree of care not present about the apple. And something in the staff slithers, reaches for itself.
no subject
No more than a minute has passed when Richard winds down into a silence that the growth continues beyond, the eerie trickle of cells through a rapid cycle of growth and death just audible beneath the rustle of his breath.
The new wood is a shade or two lighter than the staff around it, not yet having endured the rigors of weather or travel or combat under a mage’s hand, but otherwise seamless. Natural.
He lifts his hands with a hope you weren't expecting something more spectacular glance, and withdraws an easy step, leaving Isaac room to admire or test it as he sees fit.